Terminal Frost
by thegraytigress
Summary: Their world is coming apart all around them. Steve and Natasha struggle to hold onto themselves and each other as everything they thought they knew turns out to be a lie and everyone they thought they trusted betrays them. And as devastating as that is, it's nothing compared to the past coming back to shatter their future. Sequel to "Red Rain".
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **This is the sequel to "Red Rain". It's a direct continuation that runs through _The Winter Soldier._ You do not have to read "Red Rain" to follow along, but it probably wouldn't hurt. This is an AU version of _The Winter Soldier_; some of the major plot elements are going to reappear in this story, but it's not going to be a retelling. _The Winter Soldier _was just awesome the way it was, and I couldn't do it better. This is more like an exploration of what could have happened had Steve and Natasha been together with some other minor (and major) changes along the way. And where "Red Rain" focused a lot on Steve taking care of and being strong for Natasha, this is going to be the other way around.

So, just in case you didn't catch it: this is strong, established Steve/Natasha with hints of past Steve/Peggy and Clint/Natasha. Also, Clint, Sam, and Tony will play major roles in support. Lots of angst, injury, darkness… My usual. Please read and enjoy!

**TERMINAL FROST**

**1**

Natasha knew she was sleeping in too late. It was that sort of hazy feeling that the day was wasting away, that responsibilities were being shirked, that she had things to do which she really should be doing. But she was too exhausted and too warm to care, so she ignored the sun streaming through the bedroom windows and the sounds of birds and people and DC bustling outside the comforting veil of a well-deserved rest. She heard something buzzing. She lazily cracked open one eye, nuzzling deeper into a pillow that smelled like Steve, and pulled the comforter up over herself. It was her phone vibrating on the nightstand beside the bed. Once. Twice. A bunch of times. Groaning she reached for it.

She rolled over in bed, blearily blinking a few times to chase away the remnants of sleep before focusing on the screen. It was 7:33 in the morning, and a bunch of SHIELD emails was flooding her inbox. And a few text messages. The most recent was from Steve. _"Went for a run," _it said. _"Be back later. Don't get up."_

"No problem, Rogers," she groaned. She shoved her phone back on the nightstand with a clatter. The sun was too bright, so she pulled the blue blanket up and over her head and burrowed back down beneath it. She'd arrived late last night after her most recent mission, stumbling in like a zombie and positively bone-weary. Originally she had been due back in the morning, so getting home a few hours earlier had been a welcomed change. After fumbling with the lock, she'd staggered inside Steve's apartment, stripping off her sidearm and her uniform and her boots as she'd gone. She'd somehow found a well-worn pair of her pajama pants and a tank in the middle drawer of his dresser and put them on in a clumsy show that she'd been too tired to be grateful that no one saw. Then she'd collapsed into bed beside Steve, wrapping her arms around his chest and kissing his shoulder and moving as close to his warmth as possible. He'd slid a hand along her arm, mumbling something about her being back early. She'd mumbled some sort of answer in return, and that was her last memory of the night before. She'd been awake for nearly thirty-six hours prior to returning to DC, and the strain and adrenaline and effort of another rushed operation on behalf of SHIELD was driving her back down to sleep again.

She vaguely heard the shower running sometime after that. More rustling and the soft sounds of bare feet on hardwood floors. Later on, the smell of coffee and cooking bacon dragged her back from nothingness, and she opened her eyes again. The day was even brighter, and her stomach was rudely protesting its emptiness. She rubbed her eyes few times before glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was well past ten o'clock now. She laid there for another couple of minutes, the fog in her mind slow to recede. The desire to go back to sleep was strong, but Steve's side of the bed was empty and had long ago grown cold. That was enough of an incentive for her to drag herself up and get moving.

Natasha stretched, wincing as the motion popped and rotated a few joints that were stiff from mistreatment during the mission. She stood, sweeping her hair from her face, and headed down the short hallway to the main living area of the apartment. She followed her nose to the kitchen on soft footfalls.

Steve stood at the stove, handling a couple different pans at once as he made breakfast. He turned as she entered. Even if she was silent, it was nearly impossible to sneak up on a super soldier. "Mornin'," he said. "You hungry?"

That question was so stupid coming from him that she almost couldn't believe (yet again) how they'd gotten to this state. This… _domestic bliss_, she guessed it was called. It had been almost two months since their disastrous mission into Crimea. She and Steve had been sent by SHIELD to attempt to ascertain information about a Russian super soldier program only to find the product of said program, the Red Guardian, was already a threat to the world. Worse, the head of the operation, a man named General Yuri Brushov, had nearly dragged Natasha back into the dark world of her past. Brushov had been the man to take her as a young girl from the streets of Stalingrad and enroll her into his Red Room, the place where he had twisted and tortured and _made_ her into one of the world's deadliest assassins. Their mission had turned out to be a trap, a ploy Brushov had orchestrated to bring Captain America into Crimea to fight his Red Guardian. He'd also captured Natasha and injected her with his newly developed insanity serum to pull her back under his control. This serum flooded those subjected to it with rage, hysteria, and aggression to the point where rational thought and restraint were all but impossible. Simply put, it had turned men into monsters, the Red Guardian included. Things had quickly spiraled out of control at that point. Though Steve defeated the Red Guardian and put a stop to Brushov's plans to sell his insanity serum to the evil regimes of the world, he'd been seriously hurt in the process.

_You still can't make yourself accept it._ The sour thought drifted uneasily about her mind as it did every time she strayed back to the horrific nightmare from which they'd so barely escaped. Steve hadn't just been hurt, though that had been bad enough. Enraged beyond control, the Red Guardian had devastated Captain America, crushing bones and causing massive internal injuries and literally breaking his back. But that hadn't been the worst of it.

No, the worst had been Natasha shooting him in the heart.

Even now, when the trauma was beginning to be a distant memory, she couldn't tolerate thinking about it too deeply. They'd been partners for months before Director Fury had deployed them to Crimea on this seemingly simple mission of gathering intelligence on the Russian super soldier program. But one night of weakness and passion and vulnerability had changed all that. Natasha had been so compromised, so lost in the horrors of her past, that she hadn't even accepted that Steve meant more to her than her partner, captain, and friend before she'd been taken captive by her old enemies. And that serum they'd forced into her body had burned away everything but her anger, her lust, and her possessiveness. Madness. She couldn't stand to remember it, to think back on those awful moments and the haze of pain and anguish after it. What had happened on that mission had undoubtedly been the darkest horror of her life, and considering who she was and from where she'd come, that was saying a lot. She wasn't ever going back. She was with Steve now.

He'd recovered, but it hadn't been easy. It had been his strength and determination and faith in her and himself that had carried him every arduous step of the way. He was still grounded more than a month after walking out of the medical ward in the Triskelion, and that was saying something about how close he'd come to dying, how very nearly she'd lost him. But she hadn't. And he'd forgiven her. Since then, since she'd removed her cold masks and uncaring attitude, they'd grown even closer. They were friends and lovers and everything in between. She'd practically moved into his apartment, though the topic had never been decided upon or even formally discussed. She abandoned her hesitations, her hard-set and defensive boundaries, her dislike of weakness and openness. She overcame her fear of feeling, of _loving_, that Brushov and his evil had for years driven into her mind, body, and soul. Steve was the reason she was able to finally let go of her past and embrace her future. He was tender with her, tender and patient and caring. He was a good listener, though she'd never imagined she could value such a thing in another person. She'd lived a life of control, a life defined by lies, sex, and murder but most of all power. He was helping her dismantle that a piece at a time. He was strong and calm and confident. He never pushed, steadfast and silent as he reminded her with warm eyes and kind smiles that this was behind her. _All_ of it. Brushov and the Red Room. The atrocities committed by and against her. Black Widow's crimes, even the most recent ones. It was all over, and this was her new life. He was her new world.

She was starting to think it was all some sort of dream. It couldn't be real, because she was too dark and tainted and unworthy to have a second chance like this. Even as a SHIELD agent, she'd never been able to completely let go of her past, to heal like she was doing now. She'd never felt this certain of who she was underneath all her lies and covers and manipulations. He made her feel sure of herself, that she really could be a force for good. If he could love her, if _Captain America_, the very embodiment of valor and strength and heroism, could love _her_, then there was good in her.

And she'd never been in love before. Not like this. Not with a man like him. This was true love, deep love, not the fake affection and attraction she used to so easily muster for her marks and the men she'd needed to manipulate. It was raw and open and powerful. It still frightened her at times. She'd let him into her heart, the only person who she ever had trusted like that, and he'd completely redefined it. Natasha didn't believe in things like fate or luck or heaven, but she thanked God all the same that Steve Rogers had saved her. And she prayed all the time now where she never had before. She prayed that this endured, that Steve continued to stay with her even if she pulled away when the darkness crept back into her heart. That he continued to tolerate her and be patient with her even when her old icy defenses came back up and divided them. That he continued to believe in her even when she didn't entirely believe in herself. That he continued to love her, because even in this short time, she'd grown so dependent on him that she didn't know what she would do if she lost him.

Even being away from him was too painful. It was pathetic, and she knew it, but there was this excitement of new love that sped her heart like she was some simpering, stupid girl. She was a hardened assassin, a master spy, a SHIELD agent, and an Avenger. But he managed to rather effectively strip all that away and leave her longing for him like this was some ridiculous school-aged crush. She was infatuated with him. She loved and hated it at once. Well, mostly she loved it. He was still a guilty pleasure, _her_ guilty pleasure, and she couldn't go without it. She didn't have to hide that or anything else from him. Not anymore.

So she was hungry. But not for breakfast.

Well, not just for breakfast.

The sight of him standing there, in jeans that hung low on his hips without a belt and a red shirt that revealed every bit of _why_ he was Captain America, was too hard to resist. While he turned back to cooking, she slipped across the white tiles of his kitchen. He turned off the stove and was using a spatula to get her eggs onto her plate when she set her hands to his waist from behind. He was much taller than her, so her face only reached between his shoulder blades, but she'd never been daunted by that (or anything else) before as she slipped her wandering fingers under his shirt and up his back. She pushed the fabric up and followed her traveling hands with her mouth. "Wow, you don't waste a second," he said softly.

Powerful muscles flexed under lips as he reached for the toast. She pressed a line of playful kisses up his spine. "You kidding?" she whispered lowly. "I've been thinking about this. This is all I've been thinking about."

"For how long?"

"Since I left."

"Not good to be distracted on the job."

"Yeah. Don't tell my partner. He has a real hard-on for the rules." She stood on her toes and caught the lobe of his ear gently between her teeth. "And other things."

"Like what?"

She kissed down to the nape of his neck. "Me."

He laughed. "Don't you want to eat first? It'll get cold."

"You can make more."

"That's wasteful," Steve lightly chastised, but she could tell she was really turning him on. He wasn't very good at hiding it. He wasn't very good at hiding anything. It was one of the things that she liked so much about him. He wore everything on his sleeve, his compassionate heart and hard-set morals and chivalrous nature. That helped her do the same more and more often where she never used to be able to even admit her feelings to herself (or that she even had feelings). And she also liked being in control. This wasn't to say she didn't enjoy it when he took charge, but she honestly got so much excitement and euphoria out of the flustered look of arousal she still caught in his eyes when she did things like this that that was a reward in and of itself. She sincerely doubted any other woman had ever reduced Captain America to a sputtering, blushing, grinning fool, and she never tired of it.

Her fingers deftly unbuttoned his jeans. "I just got dressed," he said. She could hear the way his voice tightened just a bit in anticipation.

"You got something better to do?" she asked as her fingers danced along the waist-band of his boxer briefs. They slipped lower, which earned her a sharply drawn breath and a jerk of his hips against her. "I mean, other than me. All day."

He fumbled with his pans and plates for a moment more before turning. She stood on her toes again just as he caught her lips in searing kiss. Natasha opened her mouth to him, unzipping his jeans for better access as he wrapped his hands in her mussed hair. Breathing was inconsequential, his firm grip on her head keeping her mouth tight against his as his tongue pushed inside and swept over her teeth. Eventually she wriggled away, pulling his shirt over his head as she did and tossing it to the side. God, she'd missed this. She'd only been gone a couple of days, but as pathetic as it sounded, it had felt like a lifetime. She was addicted to him, to the way he moved, to his raw strength and power, to _every_ inch of him from his deep blue eyes to his comforting voice to his fingers that had learned so quickly exactly what she liked. He stood before her in all of his splendor, all planes and bulges of hard muscles and smooth skin. The super soldier serum he'd received during World War II had brought him to the very pinnacle of human perfection, and it showed (boy, did it ever). She never got tired of looking at it, admiring it (and wondering how the hell she'd gotten so lucky for it to be _hers_), and she would have spent more time appreciating it if it weren't for her driving desire. She wasn't lying about having all day. They could slow down later. She planted a line of hot, wet kisses down his chest, down across his pecs and abs and lower. "God, Nat," he moaned. She dug her nails into his hips as he squirmed with mounting desire. She kissed and teased and tormented until he grunted with frustration and pulled her back up. "Okay, you win."

"When are you going to realize that I always do, Rogers?" She smiled against his mouth. He devoured her, sweeping his hands under her rear to lift her against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

"Bed," he gasped. "Now."

"Aye-aye, Cap."

* * *

At this point it was _really_ too late. Too late to get up and go into SHIELD Headquarters. And she was too tired and too comfortable to care. She lay against Steve in his bed, her head on his chest, his heart beating underneath her ear. His fingers were lazily caressing up and down her back. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply with him and listening, as relaxed and contented as she could ever remember feeling. This indeed seemed like a dream, and sometimes she was still afraid it was. Sometimes she feared she'd wake up and find herself alone again and trapped in one of the innumerable nightmares of her life before him.

"How did your mission go?"

The low rumble of his voice pierced through the haze of spent passion and pleasure through which she was happily drifting. She opened her eyes. She knew him too well now not to notice the touch of irritation in his tone. He was still on medical leave, _still_ even six weeks after he'd been shot, and it had been wearing on him more and more. He was recovered (mostly, though she knew there were moments where his back slightly and stubbornly troubled him), but as of yet the SHIELD doctors hadn't cleared him for active duty. Bitterly he suspected they were following orders, and that meant it was Fury who was purposefully keeping him benched. SHIELD was a breeding ground for gossip, but Natasha had a feeling the falling out between its Director and its best soldier was more than a rumor. The mission into Crimea had damaged Steve's trust in SHIELD. She'd been a part of that (and that really bothered her, though she couldn't admit that to him because of her own shame). But it hadn't just been her secret mission to obtain the insanity serum and it hadn't just been the lies. Something wasn't right, and they both knew it.

Still, with things the way they were, Steve was out of the loop. He'd been given strict instructions to rest and recuperate, and Natasha had to admit that he'd needed it. His injuries would have killed a normal man numerous times over. They'd nearly killed him. She'd stayed with him the first few days after he'd come home from the infirmary, and though it bruised his ego, he'd really needed her help. Captain America could take hits like no one else could; with the serum in his body, he was beyond strong and resilient. But he'd been so bruised and weak and sore that simple things like getting dressed and getting in and out of chairs and his bed were difficult and taxing. She'd never made a big deal about it, silently helping him climb back to his feet, taking care of him, waiting on him (she was Black Widow and she didn't _do_ things like this, but she did it for him and without complaint). She'd helped him weather the pain, and there had been a significant amount of it. She'd learned a lot more about the very depths of his determination as she watched him pull himself back up after falling so hard and so far. She watched him suffer through agony that would have left anyone else utterly defeated. She'd known it before (everyone did) but this completely reaffirmed it. It wasn't just the super soldier serum that made him so strong.

That had been weeks ago, though, and he was long since back to normal. He was restless and bored. He'd been back to the Triskelion a few times only to be turned away by Hill and Sitwell. He struck Natasha as someone who didn't know what to do with himself during downtime simply because he so rarely had it. He was reading and drawing (she'd never been aware that he was such a good artist until she'd started living with him) and catching up on his list of things that had been recommended to him to help him acclimate to the 21st century. His frustration had only gotten worse as Natasha had resumed her duties for SHIELD. She'd gone back to work, leaving for days at a time on missions for Fury, and Steve stayed behind, downright lonely and irritated though he was doing his best not to show it. Life at SHIELD was going on after the fiasco in Crimea, and he wasn't a part of it.

Truth be told, it was starting to not sit well with Natasha, either. At first she'd been happy that he was being forced to take it easy and recover completely. He'd been brave (and crazy) enough to rescue her after the Red Guardian had beaten him down and broken his back. As much as she was grateful that he'd gotten her out of Brushov's vile clutches, he'd paid a hell of a price. He wasn't invincible, and that stark fact had struck all of SHIELD. Since he could take the hits and do the missions that no one else could, he did. That was frightening in a way it had never been before, both because he could be so badly hurt and because she loved him. Still, he was going crazy stuck at home, and she couldn't help but feel for him. And she couldn't help but wonder why Fury hadn't allowed him back into the game.

"Nat?"

"Sorry," she said, pulling away from her thoughts. "It was fine. Data mining."

"Again?"

"Data mining" was what agents called the missions where they slipped into a secure location and, for lack of a better term, stole information. She had to admit her latest series of assignments was strange. The last couple of weeks she'd been on a half dozen missions like this to various places around the world. Warehouses and factories and hotels. Abandoned places. She'd hardly encountered any resistance, and what little she had she hadn't been able to trace to any known terrorist or hostile groups. Her task had been simple. Get in, get to whatever computer system that was housed in the location, copy all the data available, and get out. Deliver what she acquired directly to Fury. This wasn't the sort of thing she typically did. These missions were often relegated to more junior agents because, in the shadowy and dangerous world of international espionage, they were fairly simple and usually not that hazardous (of course that depended on the nature of the installation to be infiltrated, but these had all been empty or poorly guarded). It was beneath her to be doing things like this. And that meant SHIELD's Director was sending her in for a reason. "Fury's looking for something."

Steve didn't argue with that. "Any idea what?"

She shrugged against him. "No. The files were all encrypted."

She felt him smile. "And you didn't try to break them?"

"I do have some principles," she said, "despite your opinion otherwise." She waited a minute before smiling herself. He knew her better than she realized sometimes. "Besides, whoever locked them up was slightly smarter than me. Slightly."

He kissed the top of her head. "Doubt that."

"You're so full of it," she said smartly, lifting her head and kissing him. "And no SHIELD business while you're on R&R."

"Fury's orders?" Steve asked. His tone was more hurt than she'd anticipated.

"Mine," she corrected.

He smiled tightly. "Sorry. Just driving myself nuts sitting here and doing nothing. I'm completely fine now. Have been for days."

"I know." She kissed him again, sweeping her hand up his chest to bring his face closer to hers. She closed her eyes and basked in it for a second (only a little ashamed of herself to be doing it). Of course, having him home had had its perks. The soldier in him had never let him sleep in once he'd been well enough to get back on his feet, and the responsible man in him had never let him completely relax when he knew there was work to be done. But there was no doubting they'd had fun together. A lot of fun like this, slow, lazy days filled with kisses and caresses and (dare she even think it) snuggling. She'd never known how pleasurable these simplicities were because her life before had never permitted them. She didn't think his had, either. "I'm sure Fury has his reasons for this. And it's not just because you pissed him off."

Steve didn't seem convinced. "You sure about that?"

"Fury may be many things, but petty isn't one of them. And neither is stupid. He knows he needs you." Natasha traced his jaw with her finger. "Besides, it hasn't been all bad, has it?"

"No," he agreed. "Been able to catch up on some reading. And finish off those _Star Wars_ movies Stark sent me a few months ago. And daytime TV. What a great thing _that_ is. And my apartment's never been so clean. Tried out some new fabric softeners. And–" She socked him playfully in the stomach. "Ow! What?" She gave him a withering look. He grinned a pretty sneaky grin, the sort of which she bet most people didn't think the serious and stern Captain America was capable. "Alright, and having you take care of me. That's been okay."

"Just okay? I was going to lay around with you all day, but if you think that's just _okay_, I'll get–"

"Nope." He grabbed her arms and stopped her from moving away from him before she'd even truly begun to try. He rolled and took her with him, pinning her beneath him. He was much stronger than her and quite a bit bigger, so she couldn't break free if she tried. She didn't try. "You're mine, right?"

"Other way around."

He smiled and captured her mouth with his. She wrapped her legs and arms around him, the sheets and part of the comforter trapped between them. They kissed a moment more, lazily and gently, and then Steve sagged down on top of her. He was still careful enough to keep his weight off of her even as he laid his head on her chest. He was always careful, like it was engrained in him. She wove her fingers through his hair. "Met someone out running today," he said after a while. "Sam Wilson. Did a couple of tours in Iraq."

"Yeah?"

"He's a nice guy. Works down at the VA now. I thought maybe I'd go down there. Check it out."

"Wow. You must _really_ be bored." Now he gave her a withering look. She felt just the slightest bit guilty for her snarky response. Aside from her, a lingering friendship with Tony Stark, and a few acquaintances and co-workers at SHIELD, Steve was still alone in this time. He'd lost everything and everyone he'd known when he'd crashed in the ice outside of Greenland in 1945. She'd immediately noticed when they'd first been partnered months ago that he'd been lonely. After all, he'd been rescued by SHIELD, thawed out, and immediately thrust into leading the Avengers during the Battle of New York. And after that, he'd joined SHIELD and had been quickly put to work defending freedom and protecting world security. There hadn't been a lot of time or opportunity for him to try and reclaim his life, his life that had ended seventy years ago during the height of World War II. So anything and everything he did to find some happiness outside of their dangerous and hectic existence was good, she supposed, even if she herself didn't feel it was necessary. "You should. I'm sure it'll make their day to have Captain America stop by."

"Yeah," he said quietly, his eyes glazed suddenly as though something was bothering him. "We talked for a while. He got out after his wingman was killed. I don't know."

When he didn't say anything further, she prompted him. "What?"

"It just got me thinking, I guess."

This was still new to her, this opening up about thoughts and feelings and needs and memories. It came naturally to him, but she'd been trained to ignore her conscience, to hide herself under countless covers and manufacture emotions as the situation required it. It was difficult to overcome her instincts. "What about?"

He hesitated, closing his eyes like he was tired as she continued to run her fingers through his hair. "I don't know. Maybe this is some sort of sign."

She didn't like the sound of this. "Sign of what?"

"That I should walk away."

Suddenly she couldn't breathe. "From SHIELD?"

He nodded. She couldn't help the wave of fear and panic that came over her. It was strong enough and it took her by surprise hard enough to break through her calm exterior. Her fingers paused in their path through his hair. It was a minute thing, but of course he noticed right away. He lifted his head, bracing his chin on his fist. "I don't know if I can go back and throw myself in it. I don't know if I trust SHIELD enough anymore."

"You trust me," she said. Her words sounded more hurt than she intended them to.

"Of course I trust you." His voice was filled with hurt, too. "I love you, Nat. You know I do." He said this with such complete sincerity, the way he always said it. It always made her feel stupid and foolish for questioning it. She released a slow breath, watching as he dipped his gaze. He took her hand and kissed it slowly, brushing his lips over each of her fingers with tenderness and devotion. When he was done, he held it to his face, sighing softly. She rubbed her thumb over his lower lip, cupping his chin. "It's just… Maybe I already have one foot out the door, you know? After what happened."

This was real. He was truly having serious doubts. She'd realized that his trust in SHIELD had been damaged but not to this extent. Natasha didn't know what to say. She couldn't think and couldn't find her voice. "What would you do?"

He sagged slightly. "I don't know." The silence that came was heavy and worrisome. She couldn't believe he was saying this. He was Captain America, for God's sake. He didn't quit. He didn't give up. Of course he'd been rattled by the mission into Crimea. He had good reason to be upset, Fury lying and the incidents with the STRIKE Team notwithstanding. But leaving? The mere thought of that was distressing in a way that was novel and sharp. She'd been part of SHIELD for far longer than he had, but even before they'd become lovers, even when they'd just been partners, she'd quickly come to associate him with SHIELD. He brought light and integrity to what they did, noble purpose and valor to their often times dark and murky lives. Captain America was SHIELD's greatest asset, a weapon against the evil of the world, the best soldier in history and a black ops specialist like no one else. Without him, she would be anchorless. Weightless.

She felt like she was already with her heart pounding and the room spinning just a little. Just as she was about to acknowledge the mounting sense of betrayal simmering in her heart, he laid his head back down on her. "I won't go without you," he murmured into her skin. Her fingers tentatively resumed their mindless stroking of his hair. "And I'm not saying that to force you out. I'll stay for you. I always will. I just… I don't know what's right anymore, Nat."

Honestly, she didn't either. Steve had seen it. Clint had seen it. She'd seen it, too. There was something going on. Maybe it was as simple as SHIELD switching its philosophies; they'd been on the offensive these last few months. Since New York, the World Security Council had been taking a harder line against evil, opting for pre-emptive attacks that crushed and killed suspects rather than arresting them. Steve refused to be a part of that no matter how Fury attempted to persuade him. He still saw the world as good and evil, black and white, with firm divisions between right and wrong. Natasha respected that about him, but she still thought it was naïve. He was beginning to realize it was, too, but he wasn't willing to compromise, not about morality or truth or doing the best he could for the world. She had been. On behalf of SHIELD she regularly lied and stole things and murdered evil men. She'd turned a blind eye to countless lesser evils because they were often necessary to prevent greater evils from occurring. Steve didn't see it that way. Despite how foolish that was, she hoped he never did.

So there was that. But she wasn't sure that was all of it. The whole attitude of the STRIKE Team during their mission to Crimea has been downright confrontational. Granted she'd been turned to wrong side, but it had been against her will. They'd had no compassion, no understanding, no willingness to try and save her. If it hadn't been for Steve, she would have been killed by them. She was damn sure of it. And Steve was fairly certain they'd purposefully defied his orders on at least one occasion. That wasn't SHIELD. She didn't know what it was.

She didn't want to think about this anymore. Thankfully, he changed the subject. "Want some lunch? It's kinda late for breakfast." He leaned up, kissing her as he did, and hopped from his bed in search of his clothes.

"You can still have breakfast for lunch. Breakfast is acceptable for any meal," she said, leaning up and managing a smile. That small exchange had shaken her, but she knew she could hide it. "Come here." He pulled his underwear on and his jeans back up and leaned down. She tugged him closer on his knees. "You don't need to worry so much," she assured softly. She stared into his eyes, resting her hands on the sides of his neck. "Fury's going to get you back out there."

"I know," he said, flushing a little bit. He flashed a grin at her. "Alright, breakfast. Gimme a sec."

Natasha watched him head back to the kitchen. Then she flopped back down in his bed and reached for her phone. She thumbed through the huge pile of email awaiting her. Mission reports. Security notices. Updates on current operations and projects. It was too much to deal with, and she wasn't in the mood. She set it to the nightstand instead and got out of bed and headed to the shower.

By the time she was done getting ready, she could smell coffee and bacon again. She dressed in pair of jeans and a tan top. She grabbed her phone again, resigning herself to the huge pile of work awaiting her. She really shouldn't have shirked it because it had only gotten larger. She sat on the couch in his den, going through the first group of emails and responding where she could. She didn't get further than that because she noticed some files with the SHIELD emblem on them spread over his coffee table. She didn't remember seeing those before she'd left two days ago, so she reached for them, her curiosity piqued. "What's this stuff?" she called down the hallway.

It was pretty obvious what it was as she started looking through it. "Oh. SHIELD's files from SSR about the war." She found herself leafing through documents on the Howling Commandos and the missions they'd done. There were notes from Howard Stark and Peggy Carter on the Commandos' operations as they'd blazed across Europe to shut down HYDRA, the rogue science division of Nazi Germany. Most of these files centered on one Sergeant James Barnes. Natasha knew who that was.

The sound of his footsteps drew her attention, and she looked up as he handed her a black mug filled with coffee and a plate full of eggs and bacon and toast. He sipped his own cup, leaning against the door frame of the den. "The Smithsonian opened up some sort of…" At this he flushed with embarrassment. "…_exhibit_ on me. And the Commandos. They wanted to know if I wanted to add anything."

"Oh." That was a pretty big deal. But the tone of Steve's voice indicated he wasn't sure what he thought about it, so she reined in her own reaction.

"The curator called a couple of days ago with some questions. Questions about Bucky and some comments he made and things he did during a few missions. Honestly, I couldn't remember the answers, but I got the files from records. I was going to call her back, but… I don't know. Doesn't seem right somehow." He smiled sadly. "Bucky's been dead for seventy years, but people seem to forget that for me it hasn't been that long at all."

Natasha looked at the old black and white pictures in the file opened on her lap. The quality wasn't that good, but she recognized Barnes right away. He was the young man always standing beside Captain America with an easy, rakish smile and dark hair. He was handsome, and in every picture he was proud with brotherly affection. Bucky Barnes, Steve's best friend from Brooklyn. Steve didn't talk about him much, but Natasha knew the story. Everyone did. They'd both been sons of Irish immigrants, poor boys who'd lived next door to each other and become unlikely companions at a young age. Barnes had looked after Steve, who'd been small and sickly and constantly tormented and beaten on by the larger kids of the neighborhood. And when Barnes had gone off to war, Steve had been bound and determined to follow him, despite his poor health and unfortunate physique. It had been that bravery and honor and strength of character that had won Steve the one and only spot in Project: Rebirth. And a few months later, Captain America had rescued Barnes and most of the 107th infantry division from a HYDRA factory deep in Italy.

The end of the story was sadder. Barnes had become a Howling Commando, and together he and Steve and the rest of their team had labored and fought to defeat HYDRA and its leader, Johann Schmidt. One mission to capture Arnim Zola, Schmidt's lead scientist and right-hand man, had ended with Barnes falling to his death from a train in the Alps. A few weeks later, Steve had been lost when he'd crashed the _Valkyrie _into the ice shelf. Together they'd saved the world, but the cost for them both had been devastatingly high. Steve's body had been found. Bucky's body never was.

Natasha closed the file. "You sure have done a lot of brooding while I was away," she commented as she set it to table. Steve smiled a little at that and took another sip of his coffee. "It doesn't suit you."

He walked further into the den before sitting next to her. He set his coffee to the table and grabbed the file. "I think too much when I get bored," he confessed. He opened it and looked through it for a second, his eyes a million miles away. Then he shook his head. "And I'm being ridiculous. He deserves every honor I can get for him. An exhibit in a national museum seems like a pretty big one."

"Not everybody gets something like that," Natasha said. She took her plate and started to eat. "It's okay to move on, Steve."

"I know. I just…" He groaned and leaned back into the sofa in exasperation. "I need something to do." The image of Captain America whining wasn't something she'd ever imagined she'd see. He flung his arms over his eyes and tipped his head back. "Something better than just sittin' around here anyway. I can't stand this anymore."

She finished eating her eggs and nudged him a little on the leg. "If it makes you feel better, your cooking's improved," she said with a sly smile.

"No, not really."

Her phone buzzed again. Natasha grabbed it from the table and swept her thumb over it to unlock the screen. Then her mood instantly plummeted. "Damn it," she said.

"What?"

"They want me back at the Triskelion." She was angry. Downright and blatantly. This sort of thing hadn't bothered her before too much, when her work with SHIELD had been the entirety of her existence. Now it wasn't anymore.

Steve sensed her frustration. "What for?"

Natasha shoved her plate away in irritation. "Doesn't say. Probably another mission briefing." She'd just gotten back. Hell, she hadn't even debriefed Fury on the events of the _last_ mission yet!

"Ignore it," he offered. He reached for her hand and pulled her closer. "Stay with me. You promised me we could–"

"I can't." They both knew it, and it was uncharacteristic of him to suggest that she shirk her duties even if it was done playfully. They both knew that, too. She stood and went back to the bedroom to find her shoes and jacket.

His expression hardened slightly, a bit in his own bitterness and hurt over this damn aggravating situation, but mostly because she was upset. She was leaving again, and he was still stuck at home, and they both hated it. He knew she could take care of herself, but he didn't like her going out there alone. And she wanted him back at her side. She'd gotten so accustomed to his strong and steady presence during their partnership that she felt naked and exposed without it. "At least let me take you," he said. "Please?"

She paused by the mirror in his dresser to check her reflection. Then she grabbed her gun and strapped it on her waist. "Hill's not going to let you in, Steve," she reminded more tersely than she intended. The sight of him sitting so frustrated and dejected on his couch was enough to melt her anger and dent her resolve. God, he looked like a whipped puppy. And the thought of clinging to him on the back of his motorcycle was appealing. Not a substitute for a day full of lazing and watching bad TV and enjoying each other, but it was better than nothing. "Alright." His face immediately brightened, ridiculously so, and she couldn't help but smile herself and roll her eyes. "Come on. Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Okay, I am _so, so_ sorry about the wait. I just couldn't delve into this too deeply until I finished "Unsustainable", which I did (yay!). Thanks for being patient. You guys are the best. We'll be back to weekly (maybe even faster than that) updates. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**TERMINAL FROST**

**2**

Natasha was right about it being ridiculously fun to cling to him on the back of his bike as he drove down the causeway toward the Triskelion. She buried her face into his jacket, breathing deeply of leather and the warm air ripping by them. Her arms were wrapped around his waist, and her mind was for once completely blank. There was only the rumble of his bike (which was significantly more sensual than she'd anticipated) and his body, a wall of strength and muscle in front of her. They'd done this before, gone riding with the bright sun overhead and the wind whipping through her hair and caressing her face, but this time felt more intimate and important for some reason. More peaceful. More meaningful. She realized why as they pulled off US-50 and onto the bridge that spanned the gleaming waters of the Potomac and led to the Triskelion. Natasha didn't put a lot of stock in things like fate or destiny, but she'd learned a long time ago to trust her instincts. Maybe she was still riled from what Steve had said earlier. Maybe that could explain the uneasy fingers that seemed to be clenching and squeezing her stomach. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right, that something bad was on the horizon. That this life she'd inexplicably been leading the last few weeks wasn't going to last.

So she didn't let go of him, not even as they passed through the security checkpoint though she did lean back so as not to seem so much like she was desperate to keep her hands on him and her body against his. She was fairly certain it was common knowledge at this point that she and Steve were dating (Black Widow didn't "date", but she could only delude herself so much because that was exactly what they were doing). The STRIKE Team, and their commander Brock Rumlow, had had no qualms about fueling the rumors that were running rampant through SHIELD about what had happened in Crimea. There might have been hope that the one night of passion she'd shared with Steve in Yalta could have been kept quiet, but everything surrounding the moment where she'd shot him had pretty effectively destroyed any chance for discretion. People knew she was sleeping with Captain America. _Everyone _seemed to know it. And people were looking at her differently now. No one was bold enough to come out and say it, but her peers and co-workers regarded her with a mixture of surprise, uncertainty, and pity. Natasha had never cared much about what people had thought of her before, but she did now and not just because the events in Crimea had rattled her. Steve's reputation was tied with hers now, and even though she had never minded being labeled a seductress, assassin, and spy, she didn't want that blackness spread onto him. The whispers that followed her everywhere were bothersome to say the least, difficult and distracting at their worst, and she felt unsteady enough in her career and so absolutely calm at home with Steve that everything was upside down and backwards. She was compromised in a way she'd never anticipated, and being at SHIELD, particularly being there with Steve, was bringing that into sharp realization.

Steve pulled into the garage, a huge, sprawling cement well beneath the Triskelion. The deep grumble of his bike echoed in the dark, vacuous space as he parked. He killed the engine and straightened himself. She didn't move. She knew she should, but she couldn't make herself pull away. His large hands came to grasp hers where they were linked across his chest, and his fingers wove through them. "You okay?"

This was stupid, and she had a job to do. She'd done it so eagerly in the past, relishing the power and freedom and thrill that came with what she did and how well she did it. It was remarkable how quickly she'd come to value something else. Someone else. "Yeah." But she still didn't let go, resting her head in between his shoulder blades and feeling him breathe.

The garage was so quiet around them. Steve didn't move, lingering as much as she was though she could tell he didn't understand why. Truth be told, she didn't either. It was back to that odd and disconcerting feeling that _something_ was slipping away. And the answer to that was to hold tighter, so she did. "You know, you technically haven't clocked in yet," he said. He turned to look over his shoulder. "We can go back home."

That sounded more and more alluring. Why not? She'd done her duty to SHIELD time and time again. They'd both made sacrifices for SHIELD's causes, some tangible sacrifices and some not. Hell, they'd saved the world once with the Avengers and again when they'd stopped Brushov from selling his poison. They were alone, and even though she knew the garage had surveillance cameras, she couldn't muster up enough concern to stop herself. She grabbed his face and pulled him closer, angling him around before kissing him soundly. Steve seemed a little surprised, but that didn't last him long as he hooked an arm around her waist and deepened the kiss. She swept her hands up his chest, balling them in his shirt with insistence that made him twist into her more and groan. "Okay," he said, a tad breathless as she shifted her teeth to nip down his neck and her hands down his body. "If you're gonna do that, we _need_ to go back home. Right now. As in _now _now."

She wanted to. So badly. But she couldn't just walk away. "Sorry," she purred against his mouth, though she wasn't in the least bit and they both knew it. "Later?"

He let out a short breath, a flustered grin twisting his lips. "Torture me much?"

She smiled slyly to hide how uncertain she felt. "You knew what you were getting into." She kissed him again, tenderly and without heat, before sliding off the back of his bike. He followed her, adjusting his rumpled shirt and jacket. She almost rolled her eyes again. "You don't need to walk me inside, Rogers. I'm a big girl and this is probably the most secure building in the world."

"I know. Call me old-fashioned," he said as he pocketed the keys to his bike in his jeans.

"Call you pathetic is more like it. I don't know what's sadder," she said as they started walking side by side to the elevator, "the fact that you think that you're actually going to get past the lobby this time or that you think no one will gossip about Captain America escorting Black Widow to work. I might as well get a head start and tweet about it now." The sad thing was with all the media attention and public adulation the Avengers had received after New York, if the rumors breached SHIELD and got loose people probably would be tweeting about it. Loudly and incessantly. The thought made her skin crawl. Talk about blown cover.

"So what if they gossip?" Steve said, though there was respectful distance between them now. He was right. So what? SHIELD had its rules, as every organization did, about fraternization within its ranks, especially within the chain of command. Steve was not technically her commanding officer, but he generally led the missions they did together and everyone (including her) deferred to him. His relationship with SHIELD had always been a tad amorphous. He was an agent, but he was not bound by most of the rules and regulations other agents were. He was Fury's ally rather than strictly his subordinate, and that made the situation even more complicated. Furthermore, if the love life of Captain America and Black Widow was fodder for the SHIELD rumor mill, then there was absolutely no way that Fury didn't know already where she was spending her free time (what little of it she had). And he hadn't said or done anything to prevent their relationship, which either meant he didn't care (unlikely) or that he didn't want to upset or offend Steve any further (which was understandable, given the falling out they seemed to be having). Or that he was biding his time to use their relationship to his own ends, like an ace in the hole. As much as Natasha wanted to trust the SHIELD Director, she couldn't put that possibility out of her head. Fury was a master manipulator, even more talented than she was. If he wanted to, Natasha was certain he would find a way to twist two of his greatest assets and the connection between them however he saw fit.

She didn't say any of this to Steve, but it was more than possible he'd already been thinking the same things. Steve was a lot more perceptive that people realized, than even she had realized before Crimea. And Steve was noble and naïve to a fault. Those personality traits made him susceptible to being used. She knew this because she had used him herself in the past. He stuck out like a sore thumb in this world of lies, murder, and espionage. This wasn't to say he was stupid or foolish, but he tended to think the best of people, that was a dangerous weakness to have in their business. His argument with Fury over Brushov's insanity serum had been something of a line in the sand, though, and from it all this doubt had grown on both of their parts.

Furthermore, something else was definitely strange about Fury. Recently he'd become distant (at least, more distant), and he was keeping his hand even closer to this chest. He'd never been friendly before, or even amiable, but Natasha knew him well enough to see he was troubled. He was curter than normal, riled under his façade of strength and control. All of this was only serving to heighten her fears (paranoid fears, surely) that something wasn't right. They walked into the elevator and Natasha gathered up her composure and buried her disquiet down deep. "Lobby," she called to the computer.

The biometric scanners immediately detected their identities. "Lobby," the feminine voice confirmed. "Captain Rogers is not cleared for further entry."

Steve stiffened slightly and ground his teeth in anger if the minute flexing of his jaw was any indication. Although Natasha didn't know why he'd expected any different, her heart immediately went out to him and she felt bad for even teasing him about his situation earlier. The lift started to ascend. "I'm going to talk to Hill," she quietly promised, shifting her weight to stand a little closer to him. "Get some answers."

Steve glanced at her, his eyes steeped in frustration, but his expression softened and his stuff form relaxed. "Thanks."

She nodded. Since it was fairly obvious he wasn't going to be going any further than the lobby, she changed the subject. "Have any plans for the rest of the day?"

Steve sighed slowly. "You're taking my plans with you," he said with half a remorseful and disappointed smile. Natasha felt rotten anew at the despondent look in his eyes. "Thought I might go see Peggy. I've been meaning to these last couple of days. She's… she's not doing well." There was a lot hidden behind those words. Pain and regret. Natasha had learned quite a bit about Steve's ill-fated romance with Peggy Carter over the last few weeks. When they'd first come together, Natasha was only slightly ashamed to admit to herself (and no one else) that she'd been jealous of Carter. Jealous of a ninety-five year old woman with whom Steve had shared a single kiss and a plan to go dancing during the height of World War II. It had been completely childish and ridiculous. Steve still loved Peggy, she knew, and a part of him always would. Natasha couldn't begrudge him that. Steve and Peggy had shared a tentative romance, just the very beginning of something that could have been long and wonderful, but he had been lost in the Arctic and she'd been forced to go on with her life without him. Seventy years later it was a grief-stricken, shattered thing, this dream of what might have been, and Natasha knew it was still a great source of pain for Steve. She didn't harbor such a harsh envy for Carter now as she had weeks ago. What Steve still shared with Peggy was soft and gentle, driven more by duty and devotion than anything else, and Natasha knew she had no place in it. She was at peace with that. Her possessiveness had been tempered by Steve's even stronger and unwavering devotion to her. Peggy might have been his past, but Steve had told Natasha again and again that she was his future and she believed him with her whole heart.

And Carter was dying. She was dying slowly, and her mind was being crushed under the weight of dementia. Steve had told Natasha about it not long ago one night in bed. He had gone to see Peggy that day and had come back, sullen and burdened. It was difficult for him to let her go like this, a piece at a time. He'd been yanked out of her life and then thrust back into it, and it was agonizing for them both, but mostly for him. Natasha had only held him and silently listened, uncertain of what to feel and even more uncertain of how to help. She had realized later, when Steve had been peacefully sleeping at her side, that listening was helping. Supporting him was helping. Being at his side was helping. He didn't want anything more than that. So now she nodded at him and surreptitiously reached for his hand and offered a comforting smile, a smile she was beginning to realize she only had for him, and he smiled back. He realized it, too.

The door opened, and Natasha immediately let his fingers go. Together they walked out into the sleek, spacious lobby of the Triskelion. Everything was chrome and shining silver and sleek gray. Overhead a ceiling of windows revealed the towers, all three of them encircling a smaller, central building as they shot into the bright sky. In the middle of the lobby, the SHIELD logo stood proud, the eagle looming over the people walking beneath it. The place was bustling with agents, techs, and other people on SHIELD business. It was always hectic like this. SHIELD was sprawling, a massive organization that spanned the world, and this was its epicenter.

The minute they strolled deeper into the lobby, people took note of Steve. They always did. Natasha wasn't sure if it was because he was Captain America or because he was with her or because of what had happened. It didn't matter. The junior agents and techs with enough bravery came up to him, stuttering through greetings or awkwardly shaking his hand. Others simply stopped and stared. Natasha hung back as the group gathered around Steve grew, not comfortable with the scene for a number of reasons (not the least of which being that she was the reason Steve had almost died). Steve looked increasingly unhappy with the attention, though he was doing a decent job of not being rude about it.

"People," came a terse call behind them. Jasper Sitwell stood there, looking displeased. Natasha had known him for years, ever since she had joined SHIELD. As one of the agents in charge of SHIELD's logistical operations, he was extremely proficient at his job. He'd once been a force in the field, but these last couple of years he'd worked with the higher-ups, coordinating directly between Fury and the various operation centers around the globe. Sitwell was a decent guy, smart as a whip and very no-nonsense. "I believe you all have work to do."

The group dispersed under Sitwell's glare. Once they were gone, the senior agent came closer. "Agent Romanoff," he said in greeting. "Barton's waiting for you in detention. They're going to be moving Garanin to a maximum security installation in a few hours, and apparently he'd like to speak with you before he goes. Hill thought it might be worth shaking him up again. See if anything more falls out of the tree." Apparently this was why they'd summoned her that morning. Natasha schooled her face. She was far too professional to let the fact that it bothered her show. Sitwell turned to Steve. "Captain."

"Agent Sitwell," Steve said with a nod.

"You look well," Sitwell commented. It was hard to see what he was thinking given his inflectionless tone. But his intentions became clear enough. Steve opened his mouth, probably to try to convince the other man that he _was_ well, so much so that he needed to be back on duty, but Sitwell spoke further before he could even begin to plead his case. "Don't bother, Rogers. I'm really sorry but my hands are tied. I can't do anything about it."

Steve was exasperated. "This is getting ridiculous. I've been cooling my heels for weeks."

Sitwell shrugged unsympathetically. "The order is coming directly from Fury."

Steve's face hardened into a tense glare at the dismissive response. Natasha watched the frustration simmer in his eyes. "Can you at least explain why?"

"Because I think Director Fury is frightened." The voice drew their attention. An older gentleman, flanked by assistants, approached from the massive staircase to the second floor behind them. He was dressed in an expensive gray suit and expertly polished dress shoes. His face was aged and wrinkled, crowned by slightly mussed tan hair, but his eyes were still very much alight. He walked with a certain poise, the confidence of someone who knew he had immense responsibilities and equally immense power at his fingertips to see those duties fulfilled. Natasha recognized him immediately, though she'd only met him once before and had never had the occasion to speak with him. This man was the Secretary of Defense, the one who literally controlled SHIELD and interfaced the massive organization with both the US government and the World Security Council. He smiled an easy smile as he approached their small group. His hand was outstretched. "Forgive me, Captain, but in all this time that you've been with us, I don't think we've ever had the opportunity to meet. I'm Alexander Pierce."

Steve nodded and shook the man's hand firmly. Natasha knew him too well not to see the slight hint of hesitation in his eyes. Steve might not have known Pierce personally, but it was more than clear from that flash of wariness that he'd already formed some opinions about the man. "It's an honor, sir."

"The honor's mine. My father served in the 101st during the Normandy Invasion. Said your strength and courage were a symbol to the entire US infantry," Pierce said with a friendly smile. He closed his other hand over Steve's where it was still clasped in his own. "Believe me when I tell you that Nick Fury isn't the only one who was afraid of what happened in Russia and how close we came to losing you. You are far too valuable an ally, irreplaceable in fact, and considering how dangerous the world is becoming we need the very best we have standing with us." His smile became broader. "And believe me as well that there's nothing any of us can do to express our gratitude to you. If it hadn't been for your heroic actions in Volgograd, we might have faced a global catastrophe."

"Thank you," Steve said.

Pierce finally let him go. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, sir," Steve answered, shifting his weight slightly. There wasn't a shred of doubt in his voice. "Back on my feet."

Pierce nodded, appraising Steve evenly. "Looks that way. And I think the time for worrying about this is well past us. If you're ready, willing, and able, then there's no reason you should be sitting on the bench while our enemies continue to crowd around us. Using our assets to their fullest extent is what keeps us ahead in this game. I'll talk to Director Fury about getting you reinstated."

This was exactly what Steve had wanted, but it came so far out of nowhere and so suddenly that he looked absolutely shocked. He shared a glance with Natasha that he shouldn't have, so relieved and alarmed by the offer. "Thank you, sir," he said, floundering with half a smile on his face.

"We need you out there, Captain. Normally I don't step on Director Fury's toes, but I think I have to insist this time. When I meet with him later today, I'll put in a good word on your behalf, okay?" A good word. That seemed like a fancy way of manhandling Fury into doing what Pierce wanted. Natasha had no idea what the relationship between Fury and Pierce was like. She knew they had some history, that they had worked together through some tense situations in the past, and that Pierce had made Fury Director of SHIELD after Peggy Carter had resigned. Pierce had the ultimate say over SHIELD's operations, but it seemed to Natasha he generally let Fury to have free rein to do as he pleased. This seemed an odd thing over which to pull rank.

If Steve thought the same thing, it wasn't obvious. "Thank you," he said again.

Pierce touched his arm amiably. "Better go enjoy the last day of your vacation," he suggested with a warm grin. Then he turned to Natasha, and his eyes hardened. "Agent Romanoff, you're just the person I needed to see. Do you mind walking with me back up to my office? I'd like to have a word with you."

Something akin to dread coiled tightly in the pit of Natasha's stomach. "I'm needed on the detention level."

"This will only take a minute," Pierce assured. "I'm sure they can wait."

She didn't dare look at Steve, unwilling to betray even the slightest bit that she wanted his support (hell, she wasn't even going to admit to herself that she wanted his support). She was an agent of SHIELD and a master spy, and she'd handled far more intimidating and daunting situations than this. Still, she didn't want to go with Pierce if she could avoid it. There was no way to escape, unfortunately, so she nodded and gracefully stepped away without even so much as a glance behind her. "Take care, Captain," Pierce said. "Nice to finally meet you."

Steve didn't respond, and Natasha couldn't see his reaction to all of this. Pierce slid his hands smoothly into the pockets of his suit and fell in step beside her as they walked to the elevators on the other side of the lobby. Once there, Pierce pressed his thumb in the call button. Natasha realized instantly that neither Sitwell nor Pierce's aides had followed them. That set her even more on edge. "You and Captain Rogers have gotten close, haven't you." It wasn't a question.

Everything her instincts had screamed at her about being on guard seemed to be true. She wasn't going to react. "I don't see how my personal life is at all relevant to anything you need to ask me," she said calmly, softly, "sir."

"It's a commonly held belief around here that SHIELD agents don't have personal lives because nothing you do or say is private. I would think that Black Widow would know that best of all. There's always someone watching." She couldn't tell if what he said was a threat or a statement of fact. The elevator arrived with a soft chirp of the computer. "You don't like me, do you, Agent Romanoff." That was also not a question, and this time she felt no reason to answer. There was nothing at all accidental or coincidental about this meeting. She wasn't stupid. Pierce chuckled slightly as the doors opened before them. "Don't tell me you're still holding a grudge about being arrested." _Bastard._ Still, she said nothing, gritting her teeth and following him inside the lift. "Not that I mean to make light of it, but you know why it had to be done. We were facing an international crisis. There was a great deal of internal strife surrounding the incident as well. We needed to seem like we were taking action to hold someone responsible. I'm truly sorry that someone was you," he said. He tipped his head and offered her a knowing and slightly disapproving look. "But you were the one who shot Captain America."

To that she still said nothing, even though her heart was pounding in pain and it was all she could do to breathe evenly and stay motionless. She'd fought so hard to come out of her shell, to accept herself for who she really was and embrace honesty, and now she needed to get back there right away, back to that place inside her where she couldn't feel. Where she could lie without conscience or consequence. "Secretary's office," Pierce directed the computer. It responded, and the lift started to ascend. He sighed. "I wasn't lying before when I said Captain Rogers is an extremely valuable asset. And I honestly have no interest in your relationship with him. The work you do is difficult, no doubt about that, so if it grounds you both, more power to you. But I would like to know if you think he's prepared to return to the field."

Natasha's mind raced at that question. She herself was an expert at emotional manipulation, so she knew well the signs of it. First and foremost, Pierce had already offered Steve his vote of confidence and promised to speak with Fury about getting him back to active duty, so the older man was definitely playing him. And she was pretty damn sure this wasn't what Pierce really wanted to ask her. This was some sort of test of her loyalty. To what purpose, she didn't know, but it set her even more on edge. "If Captain Rogers says he's ready, then he's ready."

"He took a hell of a beating," Pierce casually commented, "and he disobeyed direct orders. I doubt a man of his character would have done either of those two things if he trusted the men giving those orders."

"If you're asking me if he's still loyal to SHIELD, he is," Natasha returned quickly. She wouldn't betray Steve's confidence about his doubts. Her voice was emotionless.

"How about you?" Pierce looked at her evenly. His voice was also emotionless. "Are you loyal to SHIELD?" In all the time she'd worked for SHIELD, and given from where she'd come, she'd _never _been asked that, at least not by anyone within the organization. And it wasn't just the question itself that bothered her. It was the way he was asking it, like the answer didn't matter nearly as much as her reaction to his doubt which bordered on accusation. Therefore, she steeled her features and narrowed her eyes. He smiled faintly and shifted to walk to the other end of the lift. He leaned his hip against the railing by the window. Outside the scenery was flying by as they rapidly climbed the Triskelion. "I only ask because there have been whispers of dissension. A lot of people questioning whose loyalties lie where. I know you were under the influence of some pretty nasty drugs in Russia when you attacked the STRIKE Team and shot Captain Rogers. Your diminished mental capacity was the reason you were exonerated. And your treatment after the incident was harsh, and like I said, I'm sorry about that. But if that sort of experience doesn't drive doubt into your heart, I don't know what would." He shook his head and smiled disarmingly. "I don't want there to be doubts between us, Agent Romanoff. You're among the best of the best around here, a true asset, just like Captain Rogers. We can't afford to lose you. If people see you question yourself and your place here, it'll cascade down. Like waves it'll ripple out, and suddenly a man doesn't know who he can trust anymore. I need to know I can trust you."

Natasha shook her head. "Is there something specific you want to ask me, sir?"

Pierce smiled. "You're as sharp as they say," he commented. He pushed himself off the railing and folded his arms across his chest, scrutinizing her. "Yes, there is. I want to know what Director Fury has you looking for on these missions you've been doing for him."

_So that's what this is about._ A whisper of warning worked its way through Natasha's brain as she tried to read Pierce. "Why not ask Director Fury?"

His voice gained a harder edge, a commanding tone. "I'm asking you."

Her mind raced as she tried to figure out an answer. She didn't know exactly what Pierce wanted to know about these missions, and frankly there wasn't much she could tell him, at any rate. Even still, she didn't want to divulge something she shouldn't. There was a chain of command for a reason, and if Pierce was bypassing Fury and coming to her, it meant the two were at odds at the very least. At worst, Pierce had an agenda that was different from Fury's, and maybe he was trying to find out where her loyalties truly were. Maybe. Or she could be reading into this too much. It was difficult to know. "They're simple missions. I go in, eliminate any resistance, hack into whatever computer system they have, steal what's there, and get out."

Pierce regarded her evenly, like he was trying to decipher what she wasn't saying. "Do you know what you've been stealing?" he asked.

Natasha shook her head. "Fury told me not to look," she said. "Besides, the files have been encrypted."

"Did he say why he's been sending you?"

"No."

Pierce smiled again. "Just following orders," he said. She wasn't sure if he wanted her to confirm that, so she stood still and said nothing further. "These missions you've been doing haven't been on the books. There's no record of them on the mainframe, no support personnel notified in Operations Control. I only found out about them because Agent Barton mentioned you were gone." Natasha couldn't help the wave of icy worry rolling up and down her back. That wasn't entirely unusual. Fury was one for compartmentalizing information. It was more disturbing that Pierce (or someone in Pierce's office) was asking around. And Clint probably hadn't been aware the missions were supposed to be secret. Hell, she hadn't been aware of that. Fury had never mentioned it. She'd never really said anything to Clint, either, but he was smart and perceptive and had probably noticed she was gone. He had been worried about her since the incident in Crimea, though he'd never come out and say it.

Something must have betrayed her surprise because Pierce came closer. His eyes glimmered slightly with power and control. "I want to know what Fury has you doing. You have to admit that it's a hell of a misallocation of valuable resources to be sending a spy of your caliber out around the world on some crusade for a needle in a haystack."

Natasha gritted her teeth. "Again, sir, you would have to ask him."

Pierce pursed his lips slightly. "Computer, halt," he called. The lift immediately stopped. They were hundreds of feet off the ground, the beautiful summer day surrounding them outside the windows, the river sparkling beneath them. From this distance, DC looked calm and peaceful. "I'll be honest with you, Agent Romanoff. The World Security Council hasn't been too happy with Director Fury of late. There's been a huge push to weaponize SHIELD as quickly and efficiently as possible. After the Battle of New York, it became glaringly apparent that we are hopelessly outgunned against our enemies, both domestic and beyond. We can't rely on the Avengers to pop up and save the world every time it needs saving. The fall-out from the Chitauri invasion was hard-felt, and the Council wanted a long-term, reliable solution to our problems that didn't involve a band of misfits and outcasts barely working together and levelling half a city in the process."

She couldn't stand to stay quiet, both that he was downplaying the good the Avengers had done and blatantly ignoring that both she and Steve had played pivotal parts in doing it. "With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, the Avengers saved the world."

"Yes, they did. But they almost didn't. You saw firsthand the damage that was done to New York. It wasn't acceptable. And Nick Fury was one of the reasons the Avengers Initiative was green-lighted in the first place. He pushed, and I got behind him. I believed at the time that he was right." Pierce sighed slightly. "Unfortunately, the time for heroes is past. There are projects in motion, changes that are quickly coming to SHIELD and world security that the Council has been adamantly and impatiently pushing. I thought Fury was onboard with their plans, but since the incident in Russia, he's been… reluctant. I know him too well not to see that he's troubled. He hasn't been forthcoming with why, and, frankly, I need to know. If there's a problem, I need to know it now before it's too late."

Pierce's voice had dropped to a quiet tone filled with what seemed to be genuine concern. "I don't know you that well, but I know that Fury trusts you. And I know you trust him. So if there's something going on, I hope you'll tell me. I can't go in front of the Council and defend my friend's integrity if I don't have all the facts. And if he's right and our plans for the future of SHIELD need to be delayed or canceled, I need hard evidence to present. I don't want the Council yanking him out of frustration." She hadn't considered that. It was easy to forget sometimes that Nick Fury, despite all his power and presence, was still beholden to higher forces. And it seemed impossible that his position could be tenuous, but if it was… "Computer, resume." The lift began to ascend the final few floors to the top of the Triskelion. "So if you have any information regarding what's bothering him, you need to tell me."

Natasha didn't know what to make of this. She hadn't heard of any specific projects, at least nothing of the size and breadth necessary to fundamentally alter SHIELD, but even she didn't have full clearance. And if there was some radical change coming, that might explain the unrest both she and Steve had noticed in the organization recently. If Fury had doubts about something and he was choosing to slink around and investigate, it surely meant his concerns were serious. And sensitive. However, even if she wanted to divulge more information to Pierce, there really wasn't anything to say. All of the data she'd collected she already given directly to Fury. She still had no idea what he was looking for. "I'm sorry, but I really don't know anything more."

Pierce's expression twisted in dismay for a moment, but it quickly softened in gratitude for her candor. It was almost as if he thought they'd reached some sort of an understanding. Natasha wasn't at all sure of that or anything else. The elevator came to a stop, and the computer chirped as the doors opened. "Well, I appreciate you being honest with me, Agent Romanoff. Here." He reached into his suit jacket and produced a business card. He handed it to her. "This is my private line. It bypasses the SHIELD switchboards and even my secretaries and goes straight to me. If Fury sends you out again, please contact me. I don't want to see him lose his position any more than you do." He smiled and nodded. "Thank you. We'll be in touch."

Natasha watched as he turned and walked down the gray marble hallway toward his office. He turned the corner and was gone. When the elevator doors closed again, she released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and sagged against the wall. She licked dry lips, glancing at the business card with Pierce's name and private number, sweeping her thumb over the edge of it. Then she stuffed it in her pants pocket and looked up at the ceiling. "Detention level," she weakly commanded.

The lift obediently went down, and she tried not to feel like she was falling.

* * *

The detention level was located in the basement of the Triskelion where the hope of escape was practically nil. It was among the most secure locations in the complex, a long, cement hole that ran the length of it underground. The only way out was up, and to get there one had to pass through numerous biometric scanners, security checkpoints, perimeter patrols, and armed guard stations. The level was capable of immediate and full lockdown with only a voice command, sealing all interior doors and barring the elevators from access. And even if one could get out, he would quickly find himself with the Potomac River between him and salvation.

Natasha exited the elevator and signed in at the first security checkpoint. The scanners immediately detected her and logged her entry. She pulled open the heavy door after the guards buzzed her through. She nodded to the SHIELD agent on the other side. "Garanin," she said.

"In the holding pen," the man said, hardly looking up from his pad. Natasha walked quickly along the cement corridor where security cameras watched her every move. They were situated every dozen feet or so on the ceiling. She passed offices and conference areas for the agents permanently assigned to this location. Then she turned the corner and reached the second security check point. After that it was another few steps past interrogation rooms to the holding pen.

Clint stood outside. At her approach, he dropped his arms from where they had been folded across his chest. He didn't look pleased. "Where the hell have you been?"

She didn't know what to say. She trusted Clint completely; he was one of the few she did. Her meeting a few minutes ago had left her riled and uncertain, and she knew he would offer up understanding, if not comfort, if she told him about it. They'd been friends for as long as she had been with SHIELD, almost five years in fact. Clint knew her in ways that no one else did, not even Steve. He'd rescued her from her life as an assassin for Brushov, choosing to save her and bring her back to SHIELD rather than killing her as he'd been ordered to. Since then, he'd been at her side, a constant in her life, quiet and calm and encouraging. He had grounded her, supported her, kept her true to the new path she wanted to walk. They were a lot alike, with difficult pasts soaked red with blood and stained with nightmares, and he'd always been able to steady her. He'd put himself on the line for her so many times. He'd even killed Brushov to spare her from falling back into her past.

They'd also been lovers from time to time when they'd both needed it and wanted it. She wasn't certain what Clint thought of her relationship with Steve. He hadn't mentioned it, and she hadn't either, at least not since they'd gone after Brushov together. Their friendship had been different since then, not necessarily strained but not as comfortable and easy as it always had been. Natasha knew it wasn't because Clint didn't respect Steve or like him; they two of them had fought together plenty of times in the past as SHIELD agents and Avengers, so the marksman knew well what kind of man Steve was and respected him enough to follow his orders. And even if Clint didn't like Steve, he'd never dishonor her or embarrass her by questioning her choices. But there was something. Maybe hurt feelings or a touch of jealousy. Maybe worry. She was usually pretty adept at reading other people, and she knew Clint as well as anyone if not better, but she couldn't figure this out. And she definitely wasn't going to ask him about it. Their relationship had _never_ worked that way. Steve was forthcoming, trusting, and open. Clint was quiet, obtuse, and nonthreatening.

However, this wasn't about Steve. At least not entirely. Nothing about her conversation with Pierce sat well with her, least of all the comments the Secretary had made about Fury. Perhaps Clint would have more information. He'd been rather these last few months, another victim in the Council's dislike of the Avengers and rogue (or roguish) agents. He could have heard something, since he'd been spending more time as an errand boy, as he put it, for Hill and Sitwell. "Pierce wanted to talk to me," she explained.

His brow furrowed in confusion and surprise. "Pierce?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

As much as she might have wanted solace, she didn't want to talk about this right now. Not when she didn't even have a handle on _what_ this was. "I don't know. What does he want?" she asked with a tip of her head toward the observation window that gave them a view of the prisoner.

Clint crossed his arms over his chest again. "Apparently to talk to you. Says he has something to tell you that you'll want to hear." He grunted darkly. "Sounds like some bullshit excuse to jerk us around one last time."

That was certainly possible. Grigoriy Garanin was an ex-KGB agent they had taken prisoner during the Crimea incident. He was a very influential person on the darker side of the world. Known as "the Banker", he had helped finance countless hostile regimes and villainous plots, including but not limited to arming terrorists, supporting illegal biochemical research, and funding Brushov's attempt to flood the world with his insanity serum. SHIELD had been squeezing information out of him over the last month, and despite his promise not to break he'd cooperated without too much trouble, supplying leads and information that had helped them track down some of dangerous men. Natasha had suspected Garanin would roll fairly easily because he'd always been the sort to align himself with whoever had the most power and influence, hence his long and lucrative relationship with Brushov. In this cell, buried under the Triskelion, SHIELD pretty much had a monopoly on power and influence. Before she'd come to SHIELD, Garanin had often been in charge of paying her for her services as an assassin. He was shrewd, cunning, and dangerously calm.

He was also a painful reminder of her past, and she hadn't really seen him since they'd captured him. The fact that he had specifically asked to speak to her meant he was probably more interested in toying with her than offering any further information. But she couldn't know that for sure. And she was beyond this now. He couldn't threaten her with her past anymore. "Alright," she said, "let's get this over with."

She stepped inside of the room. Garanin stood from the bed in the corner. He was a wiry man with plain features, a hawkish nose, and balding salt and pepper hair. He nodded at her. _"__Zdravstvuyte, Chernaya vdova."_

Natasha clasped her hands before her. She pressed her lips together in a frown. "You wanted to see me."

"I wanted to say goodbye," Garanin said matter-of-factly. "This will be the last time we see each other."

Natasha stared at him. When he offered nothing further, she said, "Is that it?"

Garanin smiled. He was soft-spoken, almost gentle, and that made him seem all that much more dangerous. "Not entirely. I also wanted to tell you that I know what your SHIELD Director is trying to find."

Natasha hadn't expected that. She kept her alarm from her face. Clint came up behind her. "Other than a way to put assholes like you out of commission, I wasn't aware he's been looking for anything," he said.

"Oh, yes, he is. Desperately, no less." Garanin smiled a knowing smile that Natasha well remembered from her days as Brushov's hired killer. "He's searching far and wide. You know, don't you? He's sent you on fruitless mission after fruitless mission. He's wasting time and energy. He won't find it. Not like this."

"Won't find what?" Natasha asked tersely. She'd about had it with playing games that day. "What's he looking for?"

"Insight," Garanin supplied.

Clint's face scrunched in distaste. "What the hell is that? Insight into what?"

Garanin's smile turned more amused. And more feral. "You fools. All of you. I warned you when you took me that breaking me wouldn't matter. I warned you that there were shadows all around you, and the ones you refused to see where the most dangerous. And yet here you are, still refusing to see them." He shook his head. "Surely you remember that there's darkness in the world even beyond what you are and what you were. Darkness stronger than you, Agent Romanoff, and you, Agent Barton. Darkness so crushing and cold that it's heavier than the thickest ice of an endless winter. Weapons that even you're afraid of." Natasha's heart thudded painfully in her chest. She didn't understand, but something told her she should have. Something told her Garanin was being truthful. Something told her this was about more than just toying with her. "I know you are. I've seen it. And I see it in your eyes now."

Obviously Clint thought this was turning out to be exactly what he had suspected. Garanin was jerking them around one last time. "He's got nothing to say," the archer said. "We're finished here. Let's go." Natasha had a harder time pulling herself away, but she did.

"Wait," Garanin called. The two SHIELD agents turned.

"What do you want? I'm not interested in playing games. If you have real information, we might be able to reduce your sentence or negotiate something," Natasha coolly said.

"Negotiate? What do you have that I could possibly want?" Garanin said incredulously. He huffed an amused laugh. "You're sitting atop a house of cards and you don't even realize it. You have no power to stop what's been put into motion."

"And what's that?" Clint asked.

"If you're too foolish to see it for yourselves, then there's no point in telling you," the man answered.

"Bullshit," Clint snapped.

Garanin shook his head. "If you don't believe me, look into your own history. As I said, it's there before you. Look into something called Operation: Paperclip."

"What's that?" Clint asked shortly.

Natasha's brow furrowed in confusion. "Operation: Paperclip was SSR's effort after World War II to recruit German scientists and officials who might have had strategic or research use," she supplied. Before she'd started living with Steve, she'd heard about the operation run by the then fledgling SHIELD leadership, but she'd read more about it incidentally from the files Steve had from the archives around his apartment. There wasn't much written about it save that it had been a huge endeavor that eventually spread from interests in Nazi Germany to the Russians and Japanese. It was an attempt to prevent valuable resources from falling into obscurity or the hands of evil. The potency of biomedical research had been rather fully realized with Doctor Abraham Erskine's super soldier program, and SHIELD had made every effort to make sure the tools to build or recreate projects of that power stayed with the good guys. And secrets had and always would be SHIELD's most valuable currency. Information, and the people capable of producing or spreading it, was coveted like nothing else.

But what the hell did Garanin mean, bringing this up? "That's seventy years in the past," she said. "What does it have to do with anything?"

"Things have their way of resurfacing and seeking their due," Garanin said. He smiled again, but this time it was remorseful. "That is what I wanted to tell you. And, no, I don't want anything in return. It's too late for that now. It's too late to stop anything."

"Stop what? What's going on that needs to be stopped?" Clint demanded. Garanin said nothing. He settled himself back down on the cot as if to indicate the conversation was over. Clint grunted angrily. He was not at all pleased. "I figured you'd come at us with a bunch of bullshit."

"Take it for what you will," Garanin said. It wasn't clear if he was insulted. He closed his eyes. "You can never truly escape the mistakes of your past. You know that better than anyone, Black Widow."

Something must have shown on Natasha's face because Clint was right there, protectively putting an end to this. Her legs seemed to have stopped working and her mind was tumbling and spinning uselessly. Clint surreptitiously nudged Natasha's arm to get her walking toward the door. "Right," he said. "Thanks for the tip. Now shut the fuck up. We're finished."

They were outside again a moment later. Natasha had recovered herself somewhere between the door and where they now stood out in the corridor. Clint regarded Garanin unhappily through the observation window of the cell. He looked completely pissed off to have wasted his time. Natasha wasn't so sure. Confusion left her muddled and even more unsettled. "What do you think he meant by that?"

Clint sighed and shook his head. "Who knows? Nothing. Jerking us around."

"Why tell us now, though? Why not before?"

He was irritated with even considering this. "I don't know, Nat, and I don't care. I've been waiting around all day to get this asshole moved. Probably just figured his time was up and he wanted to get one last dig in."

That didn't satisfy her, even though it was entirely plausible. After all, Garanin hadn't told them anything terribly substantive. "But how did he know that Fury's been searching for something?"

"Lucky guess? I don't know. He's been locked up here with the interrogators for the past month." Natasha highly doubted any of SHIELD's interrogation specialists would let any information spill to a prisoner that was this sensitive. And she didn't think anyone knew about her missions on Fury's behalf. Anyone aside from Pierce, apparently. "_Is_ Fury looking for something?" Clint asked. He dropped his voice to a low murmur. "What did Pierce want?"

"Have you heard about any major projects coming down the line? Big enough to change SHIELD?"

He looked troubled. "Change SHIELD? How?" She didn't have an answer for that, so she said nothing. That aggravated him further. "What did Pierce want, Nat?"

Natasha shook her head. "Nothing."

"Nat–"

"Something's up, Clint." She shook her head. There was no evidence of that. Not really, anyway. She was suffering from hypervigilance, paranoia from her unfair treatment at the hands of the STRIKE Team after Crimea. She was unsettled from nearly losing Steve and from his doubts. This wasn't like her. Maybe she really was compromised because of her feelings. Too confused and too wrapped up in them. "Or not. God. I'm jumping at shadows."

"That's just because of what he said," Clint replied. "Evil bastard. Don't let it get to you."

She nodded, but that didn't make her feel any better. Clint dropped his hand to her shoulder comfortingly and summoned up a bit of a smile for her sake. "Alright, I need to get him out of here. The Feds are waiting to pick him up at Reagan." He walked down the hall, calling to the guards and the agents on duty to get things prepared to transport Garanin from SHIELD custody.

Natasha watched him leave, feeling increasingly disgusted at her own thoughts. She glanced back in the cell to see Garanin lying down on the cot, his hands folded peacefully across his chest. He was sleeping (or pretending to sleep), but he looked like he was dead. Like he really couldn't care less about what remained of his life. Like it really was too late to stop whatever he thought was coming. Clint was probably right; the man was just looking to get them riled up over nothing. Still… She pulled her phone from her pocket and started a text message to Steve. _"Ask Carter about Operation: Paperclip,"_ she typed. After sending that message, she lingered a moment, wanting more. Wanting to let him know that she was as uncertain as he was and that she needed his support. Wanting his strength. Wanting him to come back for her. Desperately wanting to tell him she loved him.

But she didn't dare. Pierce was right. Someone was always watching. _"Need to see you tonight,"_ she finally wrote. It wasn't what she wanted to say, but she hoped Steve would somehow read between the lines.

* * *

_Zdravstvuyte, Chernaya vdova. – _Hello, Black Widow.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Herein we have some angsty fluff (or fluffy angst? – not sure which), some sexy times (had to throw that in there while I could – read at your own discretion :-)), and some semblance of plot. Enjoy!

**TERMINAL FROST**

**3**

Steve hated admitting it to himself, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to see Peggy. This time he was finding it particularly distressing, and that had led him to where he currently was, sitting nervously on his bike outside the nursing home. It wasn't the fact that he was with Natasha now that made it so miserable (at least, not entirely). Peggy had always wished for him to find someone in the future, and she'd made it clear to him (almost every time they'd met over the last year or so in fact) that she wanted him to move on and be happy. Now that he'd finally done it, he sincerely doubted she'd be upset with him about it, although honestly a tiny part of him feared shame over some sense of betrayal. He knew that was his hang-up rather than hers, but it was hard to shake it no matter how self-inflicted and irrational it was.

More than that, though, was the fact that every time he saw Peggy, less and less of her was there. He'd made a consistent effort to visit her every week or so before the mission to Crimea, and he'd begun to notice that she wasn't the same as she had been a few months back. When he'd gone to see her last week to tell her about Natasha and what had happened, it had been even worse, so much so that he hadn't even stepped into her room. He'd meant to, but he'd caught sight of Peggy arguing with her daughter and a nurse, insisting that her husband was still alive. He'd died years ago, and she was terrified and firmly in denial, ardently refusing to listen to reason and demanding that she'd be taken to him. Maybe it had been cowardly to just slip in and out unnoticed, but Steve was only so strong, and seeing her like that was terrible. One moment she was there, as smart and sly and beautiful as she always had been. The next, with a breath or a blink of an eye, she was gone, lost in a memory or delirious, confused and sometimes agitated. That was the worst, to watch her agile mind that had saved his life on the battlefield with her cleverness, coordination, and quick thinking suddenly vanish and leave behind only raw, unhinged emotions that were extremely difficult to reconcile with the image of Peggy he had from what was to him only a year ago. She was fading, dying, a withered husk of who she had been, and he was afraid. He was afraid his presence would upset her now, throw her out of reality, and he was afraid to see her coming apart again.

Still, it wasn't right staying away like this. Peggy deserved his company. Back before the dementia had worsened, her eyes had always had so much light in them when he stopped by. She enjoyed having him close, enjoyed reliving old memories (although for him they weren't nearly so old), enjoyed the comfort he brought her in the twilight of her life. It was cowardly and selfish to deny her that.

But he just couldn't make himself go inside. He was lost and unsettled, had been for the last few days since Natasha had gone away on the missions for Fury. Without Natasha there to ground him, he felt useless. Uncertain. He heaved a sigh and tipped his head back, looking up at the puffy, white clouds sweeping across the cerulean sky and feeling the breeze brush over him. This was pathetic. He owed Peggy more than this. He got up off his bike and headed toward the door of the nursing home. On his way there, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out. There were two text messages from Natasha. One was a request that he ask Peggy about something called Operation: Paperclip. He didn't know what that was, but it was undoubtedly something concerning SHIELD. Along with Howard Stark and Chester Phillips, Steve's old CO from SSR, Peggy had founded SHIELD and acted as its inaugural Director for decades. Why would Natasha want to pick Peggy's brain about something like that? Peggy had been retired for years, so whatever it was, it couldn't be recent.

There was another message. _"Need to see you tonight."_ Steve winced a little reading it. Natasha never admitted things like that. He knew she wanted and needed him. But she only ever said it jokingly because he also knew the strength of her desires and insecurities frightened her. These were newfound things for her, and he respected that. He'd seen her at her lowest, and he knew she trusted him implicitly. She wasn't open about her feelings (or much of anything, at least not easily), but she was trying to be more so. Somehow those words on the screen of his phone weren't just her teasing or enticing him. That was almost enough for him to forego visiting Peggy and hop back on his bike and return to the Triskelion as fast as he could drive. But he didn't. One of the things that bothered her about him was his protectiveness. It was who he was; even before becoming Captain America, he'd fought for those being harassed or bullied or insulted, for _anyone_ who'd needed help, simply because it was the right thing to do. But doing the right thing was trickier with Natasha because she didn't require his protection. She was more than capable of handling herself, and even the slightest intimation that she couldn't was grounds for contention between them. She was strong, beautiful, and dangerously intelligent, an expert martial artist no less, and she was world-wise in a way that he knew he'd never be. She'd been livid with him during their mission in Crimea for implying she couldn't manage the situation on her own and for constantly trying to protect her. They'd argued (once a week or so ago, and it had been damn painful) about how stupid he'd been to go after her with his back broken and beat to all hell when he could have waited for help. But he couldn't let her be hurt. She'd suffered enough, and he'd damn well do whatever it took to prevent anything terrible happening to her again. They hadn't agreed about it, choosing instead to just let it go and not talk about it again. He respected her, as much as if not more than he respected Peggy for what she'd accomplished, and respecting her meant trusting her decisions. The last few years of his life had been entirely about everyone needing Captain America, and it was taking him some time to adjust to her needing Steve Rogers. It was not so much that he couldn't be what she wanted, but it was difficult sometimes to turn off everything else, especially his drive to keep her safe.

So he kept walking and made himself have faith that whatever the problem was, she could handle it.

Inside the lobby of the nursing home, the lady at the front desk smiled at him. "Good afternoon, Captain," she said brightly. He'd been there enough that most everyone knew him. "How are you?"

"Good. Yourself?"

"Fine, thanks. She's free, if you want to go back. It's been a good day today." Steve could hardly describe the relief he felt at that. He managed to nod and smile before heading down the polished corridors that were filled with art and flowers. This was truly a nice place, beautifully decorated, immaculately clean, and equipped with private, spacious rooms that put any hospital in which he'd ever been to shame. Peggy was receiving excellent care. He was grateful for that.

His sneakers squeaked slightly on the floor as he slowed. Peggy's daughter, a lovely, older woman named Hannah, greeted him with a relieved and surprised grin as she exited Peggy's room, closing the door behind her. "Well, hi," she said warmly. "Where have you been?"

Steve didn't think Peggy's family entirely knew what he did for a living, though they were well aware he was Captain America and that Peggy had been head of SHIELD. And he wasn't about to burden them with the truth of what had happened over the last couple of months or why he hadn't come. "I've been on assignment," he said simply.

Hannah pulled him into a quick, friendly hug, patting his back. She was sweet and tender but quick with her tongue, and when Steve looked into her eyes he saw her mother. "SHIELD has a seemingly limitless capacity to cause collateral damage and not care one bit about it," she said bluntly, and he figured she must be speaking from experience. "I haven't seen Sharon in ages. Do you ever work with her?"

Steve couldn't control his surprise. "Sharon? No. No, I don't. I haven't." He couldn't quite grasp what she was saying, although it should have been fairly obvious. "I wasn't aware anyone from your family was part of SHIELD now. Is she your daughter?"

Hannah shook her head with a little laugh. "No, thank the Lord. My brother's granddaughter, actually."

He supposed it made sense. Peggy was a natural leader, gifted, confident, and articulate, and surely she'd inspired her children and their children to follow in her footsteps. Still, it was somehow unnerving that some small piece of Peggy had been this close to him all this time and he hadn't even known it. Then again, SHIELD was huge and enjoyed its secrets; there was no reason to suspect this Sharon was stationed anywhere around him. "Where does she work? Here in DC?"

"Darling, I vowed once to never involve myself in SHIELD business," Hannah said, not unkindly but completely dismissively, "and I have no intention of breaking it." She smiled at him again. "If you do happen to see her, tell her to call her mother every once in a while. She worries." Steve was about to argue that he didn't know this girl, so it was going to be a tad difficult to pass on a message (which he had no business passing on, anyway), but Hannah moved on before he could. "Well, I'm glad you're home safe," she said with genuine appreciation. "Mom's been lonely without you." Steve nodded, trying not to acknowledge the twinge of pain in his chest at that. "You'll stay with her for a while? I need to be going."

"Yeah, it's no problem. Nice to see you."

Hannah nodded and looped the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "You too, Captain." When she was gone, Steve turned and grasped the knob to Peggy's room. Then he hesitated again, trying to work up some measure of courage to embrace what he knew was inside. Whenever things had gotten tough over the last weeks as he'd recovered from his injuries, he'd taken to reminding himself that he was Captain America and he could take it. That was what Bucky used to tell him back during the war after a hellish mission or a battle that never ended or getting shot (which he had, more than he cared to remember). _"You're Captain America, you punk. You can take it. Man up."_ Natasha was right; he'd been spending much too much time wool-gathering and getting maudlin over the past, brooding like Nat had said. Annoyed with himself, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Peggy was laying the same bed she'd been in every time he'd been to see her. The bed was slightly inclined, and a light, taupe blanket covered her to her waist. Her thick, white hair was messily fanned out over the pillows. Surrounding her was a dresser and a movable table cluttered with pill bottles, a pitcher of water, a few glasses, and tissues. Books and reading glasses rested atop the nightstand flanking the bed, and there was an abundance of pictures of Peggy with her family. Steve saw her eyes were closed, her breast rising and falling slowly with deep and even breaths. She was sleeping, so he turned to leave.

"Steve?" Her soft call immediately stilled him, and he turned and offered her a soft smile. Brown eyes that weren't quite focused but still so sharply reminded him of her blinked blearily. "Steve? Is that you?"

"Hi, Peg," he said softly. He walked to the bed, smiling wider in spite of the ocean of discomfort and grief churning in his stomach.

She was watching him, but there was a certain vacancy to her eyes that gave him pause. "Steve…"

"Yeah, it's me." He managed to make his smile brighter and more confident. "Can I sit with you?" He didn't wait for her response, sliding into the familiar chair beside her bed.

That dark emptiness in her eyes faded. "You're here?"

He wasn't sure what she meant, if she was grounded in this time or floating in the mists of her memories. This wasn't the first occasion she'd been confused about him, like seeing him, so clearly a picture from her past, dragged her back down into dementia. Still, he kept his smile strong and unbothered as he reached for her hand. It was gnarled and spotted with age, the skin so papery thin under his. Her fingers were so weak, not at all the strong, capable ones that had scribbled orders and notes and directed SSR's resources and dressed his wounds in secret so the troops wouldn't see him hurt and grabbed his uniform to pull him in for a kiss. He couldn't tear his eyes away from them for a second before he placed his other hand over hers and nodded at her. "Yeah. I'm here."

"Where did you go?" she asked. "It seems like it's been such a long time."

"I was out on a mission," he said, "for SHIELD. Sorry it took so long."

She smiled at him, thin lips pulled tautly upon an emaciated face. "Still such a good soldier," she commented. There must have been something in his voice, or maybe his eyes dipped or his breath caught just so slightly, but whatever it was, she noticed it immediately. She stared at him, watching him with eyes that at this moment were nothing short of knowing and wise. She was still so perceptive. "What happened? Were you hurt?"

Part of him didn't want to trouble her with it. There was no sense in burdening her with the truth of how close he'd come to losing his life. Another part of him wanted her comfort. Even with Natasha's care and love, something inside him ached for validation that what he'd done to himself on SHIELD's behalf had been worth it. Peggy was one of the reasons he'd joined SHIELD in the first place, and she was one of the reasons he stayed. One of the reasons he was trying to maintain his faith. He heard himself speaking before he decided what to say. "I'm alright now."

"No, you're not. I can see it in your eyes. What happened?"

He winced a little, averting his gaze to watch his thumb sweep over the bony ridges of her knuckles. "Nothing. Just…" It was too hard to tell her about how his body had been so badly broken. His mind went to something infinitely more pleasant because as nervous as he was about telling her about Natasha, deep down he knew she'd be thrilled to hear the truth. "I fell in love with someone."

Peggy's wide grin cut through the cold in his chest. Her eyes filled with what he knew was relief. "And that's got you so melodramatic?"

He couldn't help but smile himself, ashamed of his mood. This persistent, self-indulgent malaise of the past couple of weeks was really starting to irk him. He wondered how much longer he'd be able to put up with it. If Secretary Pierce was true to his word, it wouldn't be much longer. Maybe. "No, no. It's not that."

Her eyes hardened in true concern. Now she patted his hand with her other, her touch soft but still somehow strong. "Then what is it?"

He faltered, uncertain of how to explain it because he was uncertain of the explanation. He wasn't even certain that what he was feeling was warranted or grounded in anything except those long, dark hours he'd spent alone in recovery after being so badly wounded. SHIELD had used and abused him, plain and simple. "It's been like coming back from the ice these last couple of weeks. I know I should pick myself up and get back in the game, do what I can to protect people and serve, but part of me doesn't want to." He shook his head a little. "I guess I'm tired, Peggy."

"You saved the world, Steve. You should be happy."

"I know. And I'm happy. Really happy. The woman I found…" He smiled, a tad embarrassed. "She reminds me a lot of you. But it's so much more than that. I love her. I feel like she's the only thing that I know is worth fighting for now. The only good thing. If it hadn't been for her, I don't think I would've been okay after what happened."

Peggy smiled wearily. "Then thank her for me," she said, "for taking care of you. For being what I couldn't be for you."

Something inside Steve ached miserably and unexpectedly at that. He still loved Peggy. Nothing would ever change that. Not seventy years or the life she'd lived without him. Not his life now or even Natasha. A part of him would always belong to her. He stood and leaned closer, pressing his lips to her forehead. "You were everything I wanted. If I hadn't…"

She hushed him, reaching up to grasp his face between her weathered hands. "It's alright. You deserve to live your life. The last thing I'd ever want is to see you throw that away, grieving for something that can't ever be. Things happen for a reason."

"You never used to believe that," Steve said. "You always told me to fight."

She let him go, taking his hands again instead. "That was before I lost you."

He could barely stand to hear that. It wasn't spoken with regret, really. Peggy had loved her husband dearly. She loved her family. She'd made a wonderful life for herself, full of accomplishment and fulfillment. But it was at its end now, and when she was this aware, she knew it. Steve sank back into his chair helplessly. Again their hands were linked, and he stared at them. "I wish I could've given you that dance," he whispered.

Peggy shook her head. "Give it to her. You've found the right partner." Steve grimaced at that, not because it wasn't true, but because it was. It was and the woman he should have had if he hadn't been lost in the ice was telling him to move on. She'd told him before, both with her voice and in the letters she'd written for him, but this time it seemed more real. Inescapable. "I'm glad," Peggy said. Her voice was nothing more than a whisper of air. She appeared so weak and frail, gone from him so far that he could barely recognize her. "I'm so glad."

They didn't speak again for a while. Steve thought about asking her about this Operation: Paperclip. He knew that he should, but Peggy seemed so contented as she lay there that he couldn't bring himself to bother her. And he felt so absolved and relaxed in her presence that he didn't want to think about anything outside of this moment and their tenuous, fading connection. He wanted to appreciate what remained of her, the fact that she was still so strong. So beautiful. And so capable of telling him exactly what he needed to hear. She'd always done that for him, and he was grateful. When Peggy's eyes closed and a small shiver wracked down her slight frame, he let her hands go and stood to get another blanket from the dresser near the window. He unfurled it and draped it over her. "Steve?" she whispered suddenly. Her eyes were open, but they weren't seeing the world correctly. She wasn't seeing him again. "Steve?"

He knew right away that that wonderful moment was gone. She was gone with it. It hurt, but he could hide it. He smiled as he leaned over her, drawing the colorful quilt up her body. "I'm right here."

"Steve?" She grabbed his hand and pulled it to her face, brushing the backs of his fingers to her sallow cheek. She hadn't heard him or understood him. It didn't matter which because they both hurt. "You're here?"

"Of course."

She closed her eyes again, basking in his presence, in so many memories, and she held tight to his hand like she had the power to keep him there. Right then she did. "The war's over?"

His eyes stung. He couldn't help it. "It's over."

She wilted before him in relief. "And we're together."

He couldn't make himself answer, to speak at all given the tight, painful knot in his throat. He stood rigidly as she nuzzled her cheek into his palm and slid her bent fingers through his, his which were still as young, strong, and capable as they always had been. Thankfully, as the seconds slipped away, he didn't have to say anything. She fell asleep like that, warm and comfortable, and he stayed with her as long as he could.

* * *

Steve stopped at the VA before heading home. He wasn't ready to get his mind back where it needed to be, back in this time and this place, so he wanted the distraction of a new experience with new people. The simple act of walking into the large, well-kept building was somehow soothing. The girl at the front desk was as pretty as Sam had claimed with gorgeous eyes and an enchanting smile that she flashed at Steve the minute he pushed open the doors and stepped inside. If she knew who he was, she didn't say anything, a fact for which he was infinitely grateful. The place felt familiar somehow, though he'd never been there before, and he quickly realized why as he walked down the main hallway and looked over the posters and pictures adorning the cream-colored walls. This was the Veteran's Association, dedicated to serving soldiers. Sometimes it was easy to forget that that was what he was: a soldier. Someone who'd served his country during a time of war, who'd sacrificed for his nation, who'd died to save it. Operating as a SHIELD agent was perhaps the most efficient and powerful way to protect world security nowadays, but it wasn't honorable like this was.

He wandered his way into Sam's meeting. He was standing in front of a room full of vets, vets who were suffering with nightmares and survivor's guilt and PTSD. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was on equal footing, like he belonged. He listened to them talk about terrors and hallucinating IEDs and being haunted by the ghosts of those they'd lost. He listened to Sam talk about carrying the burdens, about keeping them under control and working through them. His calm words rang true with the room and with Steve. Afterwards, it was nice to just speak with Sam. Sam was a nice guy, a decent and genuine guy, and Steve hit it off with him right away. He was easy-going and simple and sincere. He smiled because he meant it. He was straight-forward. It was refreshing to deal with someone more like him, someone with whom Steve knew where he stood. Sam put him at ease, and Steve couldn't help but confess that he was uncertain, that maybe he wanted out of this dangerous and difficult life he led where everything was gray, complex, and muddled. It was damn alluring, seeing Sam comfortable, calm, and at peace with himself. Maybe that was what had brought all of this to a head in the first place. And Sam sensed it. He made everything seem simple and easy. _Just get out and do what you want to do._ He couldn't. He was Captain America. But more than that, he was in love with Natasha, and he meant what he'd said to her about staying with SHIELD to stay with her.

Still, he felt better and more grounded after seeing Sam. They'd parted with a smile and an amiable handshake and a promise to meet up again soon. Natasha was right about it; it felt nice to have a friend, to have someone to whom he could relate outside of SHIELD.

He drove home as the sun was setting over DC. It was pretty spectacular, he thought as he parked his bike. Natasha's Corvette was in the spot she normally used, but the lights weren't on in his apartment so she probably wasn't back yet. He went for a walk, enjoying the calm evening, listening to the kids playing across the street in the park and people chatting as they strolled down the sidewalk. He didn't think for a while, and it was nice because he'd frankly gotten pretty weary of his thoughts these last weeks. He just watched the sun sink below the horizon, spilling oranges and yellows and reds across the sky. He liked being outside a lot; even if people were constantly attached to their cellphones and tablets, it was still much quieter and simpler than the busy rush of life elsewhere where technology constantly invaded everything and dictated the nature of the most mundane of human interactions. He sat on a park bench until the sun finally dipped below the tree line and everything was hazy and gray with dusk. Just as he was about to leave, his phone rang. He answered it, and when he was done talking, he walked back quickly and felt even better seeing the lights on his bedroom from the street below. All his doubts vanished so completely in relief that for the first time in weeks he felt sure of himself.

The door to his place was unlocked. "Hey, you here?" he called, closing it behind him. He could barely keep the excitement from his tone as he looked around his living room. It was empty, and a few steps deeper inside revealed the kitchen to be equally so. "Nat?"

She came out of his bedroom, dressed in a comfortable pair of gray sweatpants and a navy blue hoodie. Steve smiled broadly at her. "Just got a call from Pierce's secretary. I'm back in."

Her face was stony. It wasn't angry or sad, per se, but stiff and unreadable. He knew that expression. She always wore it when something bothered her, like the absence of visible emotion was a convincing mask to hide that she was upset. It was to other people, but not to him. "From Pierce and not Fury?" she questioned.

Steve's brow creased in confusion. He supposed that was odd and probably signified Fury wasn't on board with him returning to active duty (or maybe he didn't even know about it), but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Yeah."

"When?" she asked.

"Tomorrow morning," he said, "0900." She nodded. Still she was blank. Steve sighed, not understanding. "I didn't expect the Hallelujah Choir, but a little happiness would have been nice."

"Did you talk to Carter about Operation: Paperclip?"

Something was _really_ bothering her. She stepped past him without touching him and headed to the kitchen. He frowned, shucking his leather jacket and setting it to the back of his sofa as he followed her. Natasha collected a glass from the cabinet and filled it with filtered water from the fridge. "No. Sorry. She, uh… She wasn't all there today, Nat. And I didn't want to upset her." Natasha wasn't angry. She stood with her back to him against the kitchen counter. He could see the lines of tension in her body under her loose clothes. They were obvious to his eyes. Obvious and worrying. "What's Operation: Paperclip?" She didn't answer. Steve waited in uncertainty and worry for another moment as she stayed still. When the distant between them became too burdensome, he walked up behind her and slid his arms around her, pulling her against his chest, trapping her against him. "What's the matter?" he murmured against her ear. She still didn't answer, but he could feel her relax a little. He tightened his grasp, pressing his face into the top of her head and breathing in deeply the scent of vanilla and whatever else was in her shampoo. "I shouldn't have unloaded on you like that this morning. I'm sorry."

"It's not that," she finally said. She set the glass to the counter and finally leaned into his embrace. Steve waited for a moment. He knew not to push her. He could be patient. Eventually she slid out from his arms. He didn't try to stop her. "Garanin got to me today."

It was said softly and with some shame, like a confession. Given all her talent and experience as an agent, it was. Steve didn't like the sound of it. Maybe it was just because of their shared experiences in Crimea, but he'd become overly sensitive to anything and everything to do with her past. "Got to you? How?"

Natasha looked like she wanted to say more, but she didn't. He didn't press. Instead he gathered her in his arms again, lowering his lips to the top of her head. She melted against him, all the tension and stress leaving her as he massaged her shoulders. They stood still for a long moment. "Would you do something for me?" he asked. He felt stupid and nervous (and embarrassed, though he couldn't rightly say why) and tried to calm the fast-paced flutter of his heart in his chest. It took another moment for him to manage the courage to ask what he wanted to ask. "Would you dance with me?"

She pulled back, surprise etched all over her face. "What?"

There was a lot more to this than she knew. He didn't want to tell her because it hurt too much. But he felt like he owed this to himself, and he owed it to Peggy. "I've never danced. I don't even know how. Would you teach me?"

"Steve, I–"

"Please. Right now. I want to dance with you." He really hoped she didn't make him ask again or beg her, because he knew he didn't have the emotional fortitude to do it. He already felt awkward and stupid enough. This wasn't the sort of thing they did. Something told him this wasn't the sort of thing _anybody _did anymore.

She stared into his eyes like she was trying to understand. He didn't want to explain it. Thankfully, she sensed that. "Okay." She smiled, and suddenly the flirtatious woman that drove him mad with yearning was back. "Don't you dare step on my feet, though." She headed over to the living room where the stereo was. Steve watched her, amazed anew at how quickly and efficiently she changed herself to suit his needs. It was unsettling sometimes, like he never really saw or knew who she was underneath it all, but that was only his own insecurity rattling him. Of course he knew her.

"And don't expect anything fancy. You've seen how people dance now," she called. He had, and like so much else of the future, it was shameless. He followed her into the living room. She was picking through his music, shooting a sly look at him from the corner of her eye. "Unless you want me to teach you how to dance like that."

He smiled at her. "Maybe."

"Don't you have any music from this century?"

"Music from this century isn't music. It's just noise. And loud."

"You have no idea how much of an old man cliché that is, do you," she said, grinning at her. He was so relieved she was doing this and feeling better herself. "Do yourself a favor and never say that to anyone younger than – how old are you now?"

"Twenty-nine."

"Funny." She finally succeeded in getting the stereo turned on. The swell of horns and swish of cymbals filled the apartment as "It's Been a Long, Long Time" began to play. He must have left the record in the player from the last time he'd used it. Natasha straightened and looked at him over her shoulder. "Your dance, your song," she explained. Then she sashayed closer and stepped against him. She grabbed his right hand in hers. "Arm around me." He did, sliding it along her lower back. Hers she wrapped across his shoulders and behind his neck. Kitty Kallen's sultry voice slipped over them as Natasha pulled him into a gentle sway, guiding him into slow and easy steps. There wasn't much room in his living room, with the couch right behind them and the coffee table in the way, but they managed. And the world steadily fell away. All of its doubts and troubles and pains. She smiled at him. "You're not half bad at this."

"It's easy with the right partner," he said with a small smile.

She lowered her head to his shoulder. He tightened his grip, sliding his fingers through hers in a tender caress and sinking deeper into the moment, into the feel of the music ebbing and flowing and her body against his. "So your first dance, huh. Never got around to it back in the day?"

"No," he said.

She read into what he didn't say. "What brought this on?" she asked quietly.

He drew a deep breath, dropping her hand to grasp her hips. She joined her freed hand with her other behind his neck. "I don't know," he said. "I guess I realized it's not fair of me to be asking you to let go of your past when I haven't let go of mine." That was really what it was about, when he considered it. It wasn't just Peggy or Bucky or the soldiers meeting at the VA to discuss the horrors they'd survived and how to move on from it. It wasn't just the Smithsonian opening their exhibit on him, like the life he'd led was nothing more than a museum display filled with still photos and old footage and memorabilia. It wasn't just that he still floundered in the future sometimes, that SHIELD had grounded him and given him purpose, too, purpose that seemed to be crumbling beneath his feet. It was all of that. It was the weight of everything he'd lost pushing upon him. His shattered faith in SHIELD had rattled him, brought the pain with which he'd thought he'd come to terms back with a vengeance. And having Natasha leave him to return to an organization that had shut him out had hurt more than he'd admitted. He smiled against the top of her head. "I think that I think too much."

"Yes, you do," she said. She pulled his face down to kiss him. The song played on, and they swayed slowly to it, kissing tenderly. Eventually it ended, but the moment didn't. Natasha's hands found their way up his back under his shirt and her mouth got more passionate, more demanding. Steve groaned into the next devouring kiss, her tongue slipping along his teeth as her hands decided to journey down rather than up. Exploring fingers slipped beneath his belt and jeans. "It's been a rough day, so I think we should do something that requires no thought at all."

"That's awful," he said, but when she grabbed his rear, he'd had it with restraint. He lifted her against him, staggering over to the couch. The zipper of her hoodie was somehow ridiculously difficult to get a hold of, but when he did, he yanked it down. She tossed it aside before shoving him onto the sofa.

"I did promise you," she said, her voice deep and husky with desire. She knelt between his legs, her capable fingers swiftly attacking his belt and the button and fly of his jeans. He was already straining in his pants, aching with need, and she was about to bring that to a fever pitch.

"You did," he breathed. "But don't make me wait." He groaned, doubtful that he could take it now. He shuddered back into the couch under her feathery light caress. "And don't tease me."

"You like it when I tease you," she said, pressing a kiss to his stomach.

Steve grunted and tried to think. He failed. "I do," he said dumbly.

"You do." She smiled mischievously up at him, that coy little smirk that she always had when she was wrapping him around her fingers. She was the only one who could do this to him, drive every rational thought out of his head and leave him drowning in desire. She hooked her thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans and yanked them down from his hips. Next she rid him of his underwear. He could hardly stand the pressure of her mouth on him, purposeful and so painfully _good._ She brought him right to the brink with her knowing hands and lips and tongue and held him there until he couldn't stand it anymore.

"Get up here," he ordered, reaching down for her and grabbing her arms and pulling her onto his lap. His frantic hands reached for the tank top she had on. After pulling it over her head, he kissed her frantically, teeth and tongue and hot and needy, and scrambled at her bra. That fell to the floor. He grabbed her hips insistently, pulling at her panties stubbornly and clumsily until she was naked and straddling his hips. He buried his face into her breasts, kissing and sucking, grabbing her waist with one hand to keep her from escaping him. The other slipped between her thighs. He wrested lusty moans and breathless whimpers and short pants from her lips. Together they lowered her onto him and brought him inside her. He snatched her hips and held her still for a moment, trying to catch his breath and wait. It was all he could do to hang on. "Nat…"

She leaned over him, slanting her lips over his possessively and pressing herself down harder over him. As he tossed his head back, she trailed her mouth down his jaw and the column of his throat, suckling at the pounding of his pulse. She grabbed his hands at her hips and curled their fingers together on the back of the couch around his head. God, she was beautiful. Silky heat and fire that leaned over him. Watching ecstasy wash over her face was amazing. She moved, slowly, _painfully_ slowly, teasing him still with a grin that was now sloppy and eyes that were a little dazed but wild. Steve reached up to brush her hair from her face and pull her down for another kiss, wet and deep and wanton. "You really do love torturing me," he said into her mouth.

She only managed something like a satisfied whine. She was losing control, her fists balled into his t-shirt and her back arching. Steve caught her against him, dragging his mouth up her chest to her shoulder and steadying her. He smiled against her, sinking his teeth lightly into her clavicle. Every brush of her skin to his was electrifying, and he could feel her heart thundering and her breath hitching into his hair. "Steve…" she whispered.

He knew what she wanted. Everything he knew at all about this she'd taught him, and he was a good student, if he did think so himself. He held her as he shifted them both to the left, laying her on the couch and not for a second losing contact. Clumsily he kicked at his shoes to get them off. She twisted herself and squirmed desperately beneath him to get him going, to get him deeper. She clawed at his shirt and yanked it over his head. A flurry of kisses was planted down his chest, her mouth nipping impatiently. "I know, love. Just let me–"

"_Steve, now._" He finally got his shoes off and his pants down so he could actually move. And he did move, hard and fast. Some small part of him always clung to the fact that he was too strong, so much stronger than her, and that he needed to be careful. He hung onto that one coherent thought even as everything grew hazy with heat and white with a driving desire to find release. It didn't last much longer because he was finding it, tantalizing and so close. She tightened around him, drawing him deeper, whimpering into his ear and digging her nails into his back, and that was enough to send him over the edge. The world exploded and all he could do was breathe through it and feel it and enjoy it. It was like nothing else. She was like nothing else.

Steve came down slowly. Natasha swallowed his low groan into her mouth, her tender kiss grounding him while he floated and drifted and shivered. She wrapped her legs around his hips as he sank onto her, sliding the flats of her palms up and down his back. It took a long time before Steve could manage much beyond laying there. Then he grunted a laugh into her shoulder, breathing heavily and entirely content to never move again. "You're gonna be the death of me," he slurred. Lazily he kissed her temple. "It'll be a good way to go."

She stiffened. He barely noticed it, but it was enough to cut through the pleasant fog in his head. He shifted down her body a little, her knees clamping around his torso to stop him, but now he could see her. "Nat?" Natasha didn't let him lean up. He could have easily broken away, but he didn't. Her hands were tight in his hair, keeping his head against her chest. Steve couldn't help the concern fanning over him. It was cold and uncomfortable. "Talk to me. What's the matter?"

"Promise me something," she said. The words were softly spoken, hardly more than a whisper, but they were incredibly loud. Steve was suddenly acutely aware of every part of her. Her gentle breaths. The smoothness of her skin beneath his cheek. The strength of her arms and legs and the litheness of her body. The absent slide of her fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. The desperate possessiveness he felt from her in that moment, with her holding him _tightly _in a way she'd never held him before. "Steve?"

He realized belatedly that he hadn't answered her. "What?"

"I really need you to promise me something."

He hesitated, not so much because he wouldn't give her anything or do anything for her. He would without a second thought. He was reluctant because she was worrying him. This wasn't like her. "Anything."

She drew a deeper breath. He could hear the air come into her lungs and her body struggling to hold it inside, like she was afraid if she let it go (if she let _him_ go), she'd be lost. "Promise me that no matter what happens we'll be together."

Now he did pull away and push himself up so he could see her face. "I should never have said anything. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'll stay with SHIELD."

"This isn't about SHIELD," she returned. "I don't give a damn about SHIELD."

"Natasha–"

There was such aching need in her eyes. Not for sex. Not just for his touch or his kiss or his comfort. For him. For everything he meant to her. It was raw and open, pulsing with equal parts fire and fragility, and guilt suddenly came over him, cold and harsh. He'd never been _needed _like this before, and he didn't want her to know that it frightened him, too. She took his silence for reticence. "I know you keep your promises," she said, taking him and pulling him closer to stare in his eyes. "I know you do. So if you promise me, you have to keep it." Her voice dropped to a faint murmur. "You have to. Promise me. _Please._ No matter what happens you'll be with me."

Steve cupped her face, sliding his thumb over her cheek. "I promise." Then he covered her with feverish kisses and tried not to think again.

* * *

They ordered pizza. Lounged in front of the TV in his den in their pajamas, her body folded into his on the couch, eating and drinking beer and watching the last few episodes of _Downton Abbey_ that they'd missed over recent weeks. They cuddled and talked, though not about work. Not about SHIELD. And then they went to bed where they made love again, this time slowly and carefully. Natasha seemed intent on kissing and exploring every part of him like she was trying to memorize him. Steve let her lead, let her find what she wanted, let her take whatever she needed. It was painful in its restraint, a languid, aching buildup that nearly drove him mad. She feasted on him like she was famished and only now getting her fill, like they hadn't done this before that day or days ago. Whatever was bothering her ran deep, and it hurt her. He could see that as she came apart under him in a raw display of pleasure and desperation that bordered on fear. He didn't know how else to help other than to touch her and hold her and push her when she demanded it. They fell asleep, sated but sweat-soaked and exhausted.

Years in the army had effectively destroyed Steve's ability to sleep more than what was necessary, and because of the serum, what was necessary was disturbingly minimal sometimes. Therefore, he was up before dawn. Natasha was spooned beside him, still soundly slumbering. His room was dark, the very first touches of sunlight lifting the heavy veil of shadows. He laid there a while, listening to Natasha breathe against him, before gently untangling her body from his and sliding out of bed. He kissed her shoulder and pulled the comforter up over her. Then he brushed his teeth, dressed in his running clothes, put on his sneakers, and headed out the door.

It was barely 5:30 in the morning, but his neighbor, Kate, was coming home. As he locked his apartment behind him, she was going into her own. "Morning," she said quietly. She was dressed in pink scrubs, her honeyed hair curling about her pretty face in tendrils. She smiled at him.

"Oh, hi," he said. She was a sweet girl who worked in one of the area hospitals. He'd helped her move in maybe a year ago, lugging the larger of her furniture for her. She'd come from nursing school in New York and had apparently moved to DC to be closer to her family. She was quiet and nice, the sort of person with whom it was easy to talk. She knew who he was, but she never asked about what he did and for that he was thankful. It was all classified, and he was a terrible liar. "Overnight shift?"

She looked fatigued and a tad exasperated. "Yeah. A long one, too. I love medicine, but I could do without the ridiculous hours and the complete lack of a social life." He nodded in understanding. Her eyes filled with hazy concern, like she was just remembering something. "How are you feeling, by the way? I meant to ask you when I saw you outside the other day."

He waved away her worry. She didn't know what had happened to him, of course, but she'd seen how badly hurt he'd been. It had been rather difficult to hide it over the weeks it had taken him to get back on his feet. The serum had been so taxed that the bruises and cuts had been slow to heal, and the limp had been unfortunately very noticeable. She'd been really sweet about it, offering to get him groceries or do his laundry or basically fetch whatever he wanted. He didn't think she realized Natasha had been or was living with him. "I'm fine. Completely recovered. Back to work. Today, actually."

She smiled, lifting her eyebrows. "Is that good?"

He laughed. "I sure hope so."

They lingered in an awkward moment of silence for a second before she slung her messenger bag over her shoulder. "Well, I need to get some sleep. See you."

"Bye."

She stepped inside her apartment and closed the door behind her. Steve pocketed his keys and his phone and headed down the steps. It was quiet this early in the morning, and that was always pleasant. Running and working out weren't necessary to keep him in shape, but he greatly enjoyed it, the quiet and pleasant simplicity of physical exertion. Once he was down on the street, he breathed deeply of the fresh air and stretched a second before heading off on his normal route through the city.

He didn't even get down the street. There was a black SUV at the corner. Somehow he knew who it was even before the driver's door opened. Steve slowed to a stop. "I wasn't aware you made house calls."

"I don't," Nick Fury responded. He stood dressed in black as he always was, his leather long coat brushing the tops of his combat boots. His undamaged eye was narrowed. "Get in the car." His tone was stern and demanded compliance.

Steve hesitated for a second. He hadn't seen Fury since his forced medical leave, but he noticed right away that the SHIELD Director seemed tense. Furthermore, the fact that Fury was here like this could only mean he had something important to say, and it was too sensitive to be said at the Triskelion. That feeling of distrust pricked at him again, but he did as he was told, opening the passenger door and sliding into the front seat.

Fury did the same on the other side, closing the driver's door behind him. He looked sternly at Steve, like he was analyzing him or measuring him up. Figuring him out. Judging him. Steve had been on the receiving end of looks like that plenty of times in the past. He gritted his teeth together and lifted his chin. The silence crawled by, rife with tension and tormented by the echoes of the argument they'd had the last time they'd been together. "I need your help, Captain."

That quiet, resigned declaration cut through Steve's irritation and wariness. It wasn't often Fury ever admitted to something like that, at least not to him. Steve wanted to ask him what this was about, but he kept silent, watching Fury struggle with whatever it was he wanted to say. "I wouldn't be coming to you like this if I had any other choice. But time's running out, and I had to make a move." He turned and appraised Steve evenly. "And right now, you're the only person I trust."

"Trust to do what?" Steve asked. "And you've got a strange way of showing that." He couldn't help the bitterness heating his tone even though he knew it was childish and counter-productive.

Fury was not pleased. "Do you want an apology? You're not getting one. You need to think with your head and not with your heart," he said coolly.

Steve struggled to keep hold of his temper. "I don't want an apology. I want to know what's happening. And I want an honest answer."

"It's not about honesty and visibility. This is SHIELD, and we take the world as it is, not as we'd like it to be. I've told you that. I've been telling you that for weeks. I don't like repeating myself. It's about time you get with the program and realize that things aren't always what they seem, that what you value can make you weak as much as it can make you strong." His words came faster and faster, tinged by anger and frustration. And worry. "That your assets can be used against you."

Steve had never seen him like this. "Why force me out like this?"

"I kept you out to protect you."

Icy dread plummeted to the bottom of Steve's stomach. For some reason, this hadn't occurred to him. He knew right then and there that it should have. And he knew that everything about which he and Natasha had been troubled was true. "Protect me from what?" Fury didn't answer right away, shaking his head slightly in disgust. "Protect me from what? What the hell's going on, Nick?"

"I don't know," Fury hastily admitted. He seemed less than pleased with that. Maybe he was a master manipulator and lied like no one else could, but Steve somehow knew that rushed announcement was the truth. It was the truth, and Fury was terrified about it. "Something's going down. I'm damn sure of it. There are things coming down the line. I can't tell you what. It's better that you not know. But trust me when I tell you that what's coming will change the nature of world security."

"No, I don't trust you," Steve said. "I don't trust anything about SHIELD right now. What's coming down the line?"

Fury closed his eye for a moment, sinking slightly into the driver's seat. The leather creaked loudly beneath him. "After New York, the Council wanted to take a massive leap in threat analysis. They wanted the ability to anticipate our enemies, to get out ahead of them and stop them before they even fire their first missile or shoot a single civilian. Strike first and strike hard. The worst thing about it is I was the one who pushed them into doing this." He looked genuinely regretful about that. Steve didn't know what to say. "You were right, Rogers. Can't believe I'm saying that, but it's true. You were right about things getting sacrificed along the way. But I can sit here and lament that all I want, and it's not going to make it right."

"Make what right?"

Fury appraised him evenly. "The STRIKE Team tried to kill you in Russia."

Steve had suspected that, but hearing Fury actually _say _it made it real in a way that was deep and disturbing. "Can you prove it?"

"If I could, we wouldn't be having this discussion in my car," Fury snapped. The SHIELD Director was blatantly angry, like the mere fact that something like this had occurred under his watch was appalling. Steve supposed it was. Fury seemed to get himself together, breathing tightly. "The telecom tech you had with you in Crimea was insistent that Agent Rumlow ordered Brushov's ship sunk while you and Romanoff were still aboard. He was _insistent_ that Rumlow knew you were trying to escape when he gave the command. Unfortunately it's just his word against the entire team."

"That's what this is about?" Steve asked. "You need support to go after Rumlow?"

Fury sighed disappointedly through his nose. "I wish it was that simple. The kid also told me that there was a significant chunk of time in Sevastopol that Rumlow and a few others of the team were off-site. He wasn't sure where they went. I've been trying to piece it back together, but without more data it's been a challenge. I figured that maybe the whole thing had been a front, a reason for Rumlow being there that went beyond the mission objectives, so I've been hunting down possible connections. I correlated the six days that the STRIKE Team was holed up in the safe house with air and sea traffic around the area."

At that Fury handed him a tablet. Steve looked over the display with quick eyes, noting one side was a list of all the ships that had been docked in the harbor and all of the flights into and out of the airport over the span of the time they'd been there. It was cross-referenced on the other side of the screen with locations and names. He looked up at Fury. He wasn't current with SHIELD's efforts to catalog and characterize the world's worst criminals and terrorists, but he recognized a few of these names. "Wait, are you saying that Rumlow was there working with one of these guys? Why?"

"Again, Rogers, if I knew that, I wouldn't be here asking for your help," Fury said irately. "Data mining's a convenient cover. Romanoff has been tracking down some of these leads, but none of them have panned out."

That explained Natasha's missions. "Why didn't you tell Natasha the truth about this?"

"It's called compartmentalization. I find it useful, particularly when I'm investigating my own people." Fury tempered his anger over the next second. "I thought I might be chasing shadows at first. Now I know I'm not. The tech who came to me about what happened? Died two days ago in a car crash." Steve winced. "I've learned not to believe in coincidences."

Honestly, Fury didn't need to convince Steve that Rumlow and the STRIKE Team weren't on the level. Before Crimea, he'd thought decently of Rumlow. The guy was a hell of an agent, a black ops specialist like no one else with whom Steve had worked before, but he was too intense and just a tad cruel. To Steve he'd never been anything other than amiable, though maybe sensibly distant and even a little forced and begrudging, but Steve had seen lesser agents be on the receiving end of Rumlow's harsh treatment. Rumlow could be vindictive without a shred of remorse. And if he was betraying SHIELD, there was a hell of a reason to be concerned. "What do you want me to do?"

Fury took the pad back for a second and scrolled using the touch screen to one item in the list. He opened it. "This is the _Lemurian Star_. It purports to be some sort of satellite launch ship for a telecom firm based out of Istanbul, but the intelligence community has it linked to a couple dozen raids of commercial liners and cargo vessels over the last few months."

"So it's a pirate ship," Steve surmised.

Fury nodded. "It's crewed by top mercenaries about a dozen in all, recruited from all over Europe but particularly from the Balkans,. They're led by this guy: Georges Batroc." Steve stared at the man's picture. He looked hard and humorless, more muscle than anything else, with a round head and narrow, fierce features. "He's an Algerian national that served in the DGSE. The French demobilized him a couple of years ago, and since then he's made an admirable effort of racking up a significant body count. Interpol's got him on their Red Notice, and the CIA's been trying to shut him down for months."

"What makes you think he and Rumlow met?"

"Because they've met before. Before Rumlow came to us, he was a SEAL. There was an op in Basra in 2006 in which both SOCOM and the DGSE were involved, and many of the specialists sent in were killed or captured. I know Rumlow was taken prisoner. The French went through quite a bit of effort to keep it quiet, but Batroc was, as well. They were both held by the militants for weeks before they were rescued. Like I said, I don't believe in coincidences."

Steve didn't, either. "Where is this ship now?"

"It doesn't often make port, at least not where we can easily track it. But I have it on good authority from an arms dealer that the _Lemurian Star_ is going to be in Algiers tomorrow. Considering how hard it is to track Batroc and his men down, we need to move now while we have the opportunity. I need you to go out there and shut them down."

"Shut them down?" He didn't like ambiguity. And he wasn't a weapon.

"I trust you to use your own judgment." Steve didn't care how evil someone was or what someone did. He wouldn't kill a man in anything less than defense of himself or someone else; that was murder, and it was wrong. War was one thing, and the compromises they'd made when fighting the Nazis still bothered him sometimes. But stealth ops and assassination? That he wouldn't do. Still there were plenty of other things he would, like see Batroc and his men were incapacitated and arrested. "If there's any sign of Rumlow's involvement with Batroc, I want to know about it. This–" At that, Fury handed him a silver stick with the SHIELD logo on it. "–is a USB drive equipped with its own software to ghost any computer system it's connected to. Plug it in and it will copy everything automatically."

Steve took the device. He released a slow breath. "Bring whatever you find back. You report to me, Rogers. No one else. I want this done silently. I…" Fury hesitated again. "I get the feeling Secretary Pierce doesn't want this matter investigated. I'm not sure why. The Council is less than pleased with the delays we've had, and I think Pierce is trying to salvage the situation and cover my ass. But…"

"What?" Steve prompted.

"I can't be sure. I haven't been entirely candid with him about what I've found, and I want to keep it that way." Fury watched him as he palmed the USB drive and looked over the data on Batroc and the _Lemurian Star_. "I can't order you to do this, Cap. I can't order you to do anything. But believe me when I tell you that I need you. I kept you on the bench because I wanted to keep you safe. Rumlow wasn't at all subtle about trying to get you killed. And if something's moving in the shadows…"

Steve didn't appreciate the doubt. Maybe that was all there could be. "Alright. We'll leave immediately. Romanoff and I can–"

"Not Romanoff. Just you, Cap."

Steve didn't understand for a second, his mind reeling. "What?"

"She stays. You go alone."

Steve's expression must have revealed how alarmed and reluctant he was. He'd never done a mission for SHIELD alone. It wasn't that he didn't think he was capable, but this was not his strength. He was a leader, first and foremost, a tactician and mission commander. But more than that, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been out in the field without Natasha at his side. She was his partner. And if Fury was barring Natasha from coming with him, then he either had doubts as to her state of mind and capability or doubts as to her loyalties. He wasn't sure which was more disturbing. The words were out of his mouth before he even thought to speak. "What are you saying? She's not–"

"It has nothing to do with her," Fury hotly retorted. "Pierce is questioning her. He's watching her. If I want to keep this quiet, I can't have her involved. Sending her out is a red flag, and I can't afford that right now. Not until I know what we're dealing with. Do you understand that?"

Steve couldn't just accept that. His chest felt tight with anger, frustration, and confusion. "Is SHIELD compromised?" he demanded. Fury didn't answer. He didn't want to, if the clenching of his jaw and the narrowing of his eye was any indication. He stared darkly at the street before him. "Nick, is SHIELD compromised?"

"I don't know," Fury quietly admitted. "There's that old saying. 'Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.' It's trite bullshit, but a lot of times trite bullshit is true." Steve expected more, some explanation, but there was none. After a long pause, he looked at Steve squarely, and the matter was closed for discussion. "I've arranged for transportation. Retrieve the intel. If you can reduce Batroc's ability to terrorize the innocent people of the world, more power to you. Mission objectives and information are all on that pad." There was surprising openness in his gaze and softness in his voice as he met Steve's gaze again. "I didn't just bench you to keep you safe. I kept you out so I could bring you in when I needed you. And I need you now. I need you on this, Cap. Keep it quiet. Just get in there and get it done. All goes well you should be back the day after tomorrow."

Steve looked down at the tablet and drive. Despite the fear and disquiet he'd suffered moments before and the anger that Fury was sending him off without Natasha, he was mostly numb with acceptance. He had to do this. He didn't know what projects the Council had in motion, but if Fury was worried about the danger they could pose the world should evil get its greedy hands on them, he had to do what he could to stop that. And that meant trusting that Fury knew best. It wasn't easy after everything Fury had done in the past. Lying about the HYDRA weapons on the helicarrier and Phase Two. Lying about Crimea and the insanity serum. Their argument. But he had to do it, had to operate on faith, because not doing anything at all was too risky.

And if he had to keep Natasha out of the loop or even lie to keep her safe, he would do that too, no matter how much it hurt him.

"You got this, soldier?" Fury asked.

"Yes, sir," Steve answered with a curt nod. "I've got it."

"Good. See you in two days." Steve glanced at Fury, trying to read deeper into it, but it was said sternly and matter-of-factly, like he hadn't just ordered Captain America on a secret mission and undoubtedly extremely dangerous mission. But for Fury it was always about the ends and seeing them accomplished swiftly and efficiently. So Steve grabbed the tablet and the USB drive, pushed open the passenger door, and stepped back out onto the sidewalk. After he closed the door, Fury rolled down the window and nodded once. "Be careful, Captain." He drove away.

* * *

Steve was in a bit of a daze, his mind racing but coming up short, as he went back to his apartment. He stripped off his running clothes and took a quick shower. He brushed his hair, brushed his teeth, and shaved. With military efficiency driving him, he was dressed and entirely ready to go in a matter of minutes. His sneakers thudded softly on the floor as he went over to grab his shield where it was in the corner of his bedroom. And when his eyes fell upon Natasha's sleeping form in his bed, still nestled in the comforter and sheets where he'd left her, something inside him throbbed miserably. He could write her a note or leave her a text to tell her that he was leaving. Some small part of him wanted to do that because it was the easy way out. But he felt guilty even considering it, so he banished the ugly idea and knelt at the bedside. "Nat," he called softly, reaching his fingers to her face to carefully brush the hair from her eyes. "Nat, wake up a sec."

She did. Her eyelids fluttered and she groaned a little, rolling onto her back and squinting up at the ceiling. They flitted over to Steve for a moment before closing again. "What time is it?"

"Early. You can sleep. I just need to tell you something."

"What?" she quietly asked.

He smiled weakly. "Fury's sending me out."

She jolted to awareness. "What? He's…" She sat up, reaching for him. He took her hand, folding their fingers together. She stared into his eyes like she thought he might be lying and was searching for the truth. He didn't know what to expect. They were both SHIELD agents, and they lived dangerous lives. And she couldn't very well be upset about this when she'd done the same to him numerous times over the last two weeks. But he still feared that she would be, because if she was, he knew he was going to have an even harder time leaving her. He already feared he wouldn't be able to after how vulnerable she'd been last night.

But Natasha was so much stronger than he realized sometimes. She gathered her wits and her expression into a calm hint of a frown. "How long?"

"Couple of days."

"By yourself?"

He nodded. "I'll be alright." He didn't bother with nonsense about it not being dangerous because she knew it was for Fury to send in Captain America. And she didn't bother asking about where he was going or what he was doing because she knew that he would have told her if he could. So she only nodded too. Steve cupped her face, summoning the best smile he could manage. His thumb swept over her lips, lips still swollen from so many frantic kisses the night before. He pressed his mouth gently to hers, trying not to savor it so much because – _damn it _– there was no reason to. He pulled away and kissed her forehead before standing and sliding his shield over his back. He took a few steps away, their hands linked until his fingers slid away from hers. "Be here when I get back?"

She nodded as she let go of him. But he only made it a few steps away before she was out of their bed, the comforter around her naked body. "Steve, wait!" He turned just as she flung herself at him, just as she wrapped herself around him and kissed him breathless. Her fingers found their way into his hair, tightening and mussing it. Steve slid an arm around her, keeping her flush to him. The kiss grew more desperate, wild and frenzied with need and fear, and when she finally pulled away from him, she said, "I'll be here." She searched his eyes again, hers filled with strength and certainty that he needed to see right then. "Just make sure you come back."

Steve drew a deep breath and nodded. "I love you."

"Love you, too."

She drew the blanket tighter around herself, watching his every movement as he turned and left her.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Authorunable, I do have plans to write a wartime Howling Commandos story featuring Steve and Bucky. I agree that it's not too often explored in fanfiction, at least not that I have read. I have a short story about them called "The Bleeding Drops of Red" already posted here, if you haven't read that. :-)

Super extra special thanks to Belmene for help with the French translations!

**TERMINAL FROST**

**4**

The _Lemurian Star_ was docked in a shadowy, uninviting port on the Mediterranean. In front of it, Algiers was bright and bustling even at this late hour, glowing as it sprawled its way up the hills on the northern coast of Africa. Behind it, the sea was dark and glassy, shifting with gentle, frothy swells that shone like streaks of pearl and diamond. The harbor was quiet and peaceful. The night was heavy with heat and humidity, so much so that Steve's uniform was plastered to his body with perspiration as he waited. Remaining motionless and quiet this long had been miserable to say the least. Steve counted himself a patient person, but the moist air was so sweltering and stifling around him that it was really testing his restraint. He'd been hiding inside one of the small buildings along the pier for the last couple of hours, keeping to the thick shadows among some old, musty crates inside and watching out the rusty, crude-covered window for the ship to arrive. Fury's informant had said the _Lemurian Star _would be there shortly after midnight, and he'd been true to his word. The ship had docked about fifteen minutes ago. Steve had a fairly decent view of it on the second floor of this dilapidated shack, and he'd been tracking the pirates' movements on the deck, trying to gauge how many there were, where they were, what sort of munitions they had, and what they were doing. He shook his head slightly. After what happened in Crimea, he would have been perfectly content to never board another hostile ship as long as he lived. The last time he'd done this, he'd been shot. Twice. And nearly beaten to death by his crazed, maniacal Russian counterpart. And nearly drowned.

He could handle this mission but damn if he didn't just want it to be over. His back was still tender and bothered him at times, not enough to impede him by any means, but just shy of sufficiently stiff and painful to be aggravating. He knew he was ready, but for the first time in a really long time, his heart wasn't as sure as the rest of him. He'd never been knocked down so hard before, injured so badly, so it was only natural to doubt himself a little and to actually be afraid of being hurt again. To make matters worse, Fury's intel was a little off. He'd counted twenty-five pirates thus far, including Batroc who'd come up to the deck to bark orders to his men a few minutes ago before disappearing down below again. The _Lemurian Star_ was a huge vessel, equipped with what looked to be state of the air technology, weapons, and a helipad at its stern. Twenty-five men couldn't possibly effectively guard such a lengthy ship. It was just too much ground to cover. So he watched and waited a few minutes more, his eidetic memory helping him plot the course each of the pirates was walking around the decks of the ship. When he saw his opening, he slipped silently back out of the shack. There was a ramshackle gangway around the top it, nothing more than rusty plates of metal under his feet and corroded rails around him. He ducked low on the end of it closest to the ship, watching carefully as the pirate at the rail of the deck paused a moment to look around on the dock below. When he went on his way, Steve jumped. He easily made it the dozen feet up to the railing of the ship, soundlessly grasping the sturdy steel and bracing his boots against the side. With a graceful leap, he landed on the deck silently.

Steve moved fast. Despite the heavy cloud cover, the deck was well-lit, washed in overly pale illumination from the light fixtures spread around it. He had boarded toward the forward section of the vessel, with the long expanse of the _Lemurian Star _behind him. The bridge was located right above him atop the massive structure that comprised the head of the ship. He ducked behind some equipment, concealing himself in its shadows. And he waited again, listening. Despite his advanced hearing, he hadn't been able to make out what the pirates had been saying from inside the shack. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for or how to find it, so staying hidden seemed as good a plan as any for the moment.

He didn't have to wait for long. There was a crackle of static over a walkie-talkie. _"Notre contact arrive dans cinq minutes."_

The man who'd recently passed him was down the deck a few feet. Steve pressed his back to equipment behind him to remain concealed while he leaned over to see him. _"Compris,"_ the pirate said, lifting his walkie-talkie to his lips and shouldering his rifle.

The muffled voice resounded over the line again. _"Escortez-le vers le pont. Puis appelez Durand. Je veux que tout soit bouclé dans trente minutes."_ The tone was tense and displeased.

The man nodded. _"Oui, Batroc."_

Steve leaned away as the guard walked back the way he came, heading towards the ship's interior. Below there was a gangway on the starboard side that led down to the pier. He breathed softly, taking a moment to think. He didn't know who this contact was; Fury hadn't said anything about it, but whoever it was, it could certainly prove important. Considering they had no idea what Batroc was up to or what his relationship or business with Rumlow was, any information was pertinent. And it sounded like he needed to move fairly quickly. Batroc wanted them underway in thirty minutes. That meant at the very least he needed to find the server room and copy the data. Fury had provided him with a few satellite images and blueprints of ships similar in size and make to this one, but despite his best efforts, he hadn't been able to locate an exact deck plan or map. The _Lemurian Star_ was massive, significantly larger than either of the two ships that Brushov had had under his command in Crimea. It wasn't going to be easy to find what he needed unless he had time to look around. The satellite launch platform was in the rear of the ship, where cranes, loading equipment, and specialized gear rose high above the deck and curled over it. From here he could see the twin towers that surrounded the platform, one likely housing the launch control center. SHIELD's own satellite launch ships typically had their databanks in the stern. Back there, maybe?

It didn't matter. To do this, he would have to move fast and take out some of the pirates. And to do that, he needed ears and eyes on everything.

Ears first.

He crept silently down the deck, heading aft and to the port side in search of another of the pirates. He found one easily enough, leaning against the rail and smoking with his rifle uncaringly lowered. Steve leapt from the shadows and grabbed the man about the neck, squeezing tightly enough to strangle him unconsciousness. He gurgled, unable to scream, and slumped to the deck in short order. Steve took him by the leg and dragged him into the concealing blackness behind him. Then he knelt and took his walkie-talkie. He stuffed it into his belt and sprinted down the deck quietly, wondering how many of the pirates he could disable before anyone noticed something was amiss. He came upon another, snatching his gun from the man's hands and landing an impressive kick in his chest. He was flung back into the metal bulkhead of the ship with a crunch. A second man noticed the clamor and ripped around to fire at him, his mouth opening to raise the alarm, but Steve was much faster. He already had his shield off his back, and he slammed it into the pirate's face, knocking him out cold. It took only a moment to pull the incapacitated men into the interior of the ship behind him, leaving them on the floor of a storage room and breaking the lock on the door so they couldn't escape.

_"Le contact est ici,"_ someone said on the walkie-talkie. Steve hardly paused, continuing to sweep forward on the port side and dispensing with the pirates. At the next one he tossed his shield, and it struck with enough force to send the man barreling back into some pipes behind him. Steve whirled and grabbed his companion, bringing his knee up sharply into the man's midriff to force the air from his lungs and then again into his head to knock him out. He snatched his shield as it came back to him, sprinting down the deck, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Another couple of guards were on a lower deck amidships. He grasped the railing as he jumped down, and when his boots softly thudded as he landed the men turned. Steve took one by the vest and threw him into the other. They went down in a tangled mess of limbs, cursing and groaning. He made sure they stayed down, and after that he tore across the deck, moving like a shadow himself, dark against the night and impossibly fast. He leapt smoothly back up to the higher deck and crouched alongside a small structure that contained a stairwell into the ship's belly. He looked back at from where he'd come.

The ship's lights were bright enough that he could clearly see through the massive windows of the bridge. He recognized Batroc rising from the captain's chair. There were four other pirates in there with him. The door opened in the rear of the room, but one of the men shifted and Steve couldn't see who came inside. _Damn it._ He had to make a decision at this point. He could either stay and attempt to discern who their contact was or he could continue to the launch control center in the rear and hopefully find the ship's computer banks. He decided on the latter option, since that was his mission objective. The arrival of this contact, whoever it was, would provide enough of a distraction for him to get that done.

Steve watched a moment more, narrowing his eyes and hoping for a better glimpse of the contact, but it was pointless. Silently he stood and ran down the rest of the way aft on the _Lemurian Star._ He encountered some resistance, plowing through one man and sending him sprawling and shoving another roughly into a bulkhead. The third tried to actually engage him. Steve batted his gun away before he had the chance to shoot it, but he drew a knife which he wielded clumsily. He stabbed at Steve, the silver blade slicing through the air to hit the vibranium of his shield with a dull clang. Reeling in surprise, the man staggered, and Steve snatched his wrist and broke it with one twist, disarming him. He chucked him into the railing. The one he'd thrown into the bulkhead weakly reached for the handle to the fire alarm, but Steve scooped up the fallen knife and threw it at him. It drove deep into his hand, the front of the blade bending and breaking from the force as it hit the metal of the bulkhead, and the pirate howled. Steve was on him in an instant, and a knee to his chin dropped him.

Ahead was the launch platform. Steve raced across it to the twin towers that were adjacent to it, wondering which to try. Thankfully, he didn't have to randomly pick. Batroc's rough orders resounded through his walkie-talkie. _"Préparez le paquet. Nous sommes sur le chemin du retour." _The door to the left tower opened. Steve darted to the shadows beneath the stairwell that led down from it in two huge steps, his hand dropping to the walkie-talkie in his belt and turning it off. He watched boots appear above his head, slamming loudly onto the metal grate. The man was grumbling irately in French, cussing vulgarly. He didn't respond to Batroc right away, walking heavily down the steps. _"Vous me recevez?"_ came a warning growl.

The man raised his walkie-talkie to his mouth. _"A-t-il apporté de l'argent?"_

_"Tenez-vous prêt maintenant."_

_"Tout de suite, Batroc."_ The man's voice was tight with frustration. He stomped across the deck. _"Ras le bol de cette connerie," _he hissed in fury. He reached the opposite door, yanked the handle down, and shoved it open. _"Dépêchez-vous, putain! Ils arrivent!"_

Steve made his move. He charged across the deck, tackling the man from the rear and shoving him into whatever room lay beyond. The guy cried out, the walkie-talkie skittering across the floor. Steve punched him in the face, and he went limp beneath him. The pirates inside the room (this was the control center, if the rows of state of art computers and huge monitoring screens were any indication) shouted and clambered for their guns. They might have been highly trained and highly skilled mercenaries, but they were no match for Captain America. Steve's shield rang through the air, a blur of red, white, and silver, as it knocked the gun from the hands of one of the men and struck another in the side in a perfect arc before flying back to Steve's waiting hand. He rolled on the ball of his foot, whirling and landing a hard kick at the closest thug. The man collapsed in a boneless heap. There were still two more, one seated at the console and another in the rear of the room. Steve kicked the handgun from the pirate at the keyboard, slamming his head into the desk. The last man smartly dropped his weapon and raised his hands, backing away.

"What's the package?" Steve asked. The man stared at him. He was young, younger than Steve at any rate, with wide-eyes and an unshaven face. He probably didn't speak English. _"Qu'est-ce que c'est, ce paquet?"_

The pirate hesitated. A more hardened criminal might not have betrayed his leader or his cause so easily, but the young man darted his eyes to the computer terminal near where his companion had been working. There was a silver USB drive connected to one of the external ports. Steve glanced at the computer screen in front of the man who was now slumped over his keyboard. He wasn't as technologically savvy as others at SHIELD, but he knew more than most people realized. And the red words splayed all over the screen indicated a massive file transfer had been completed to the drive.

Steve's brow furrowed in confusion. He stepped around the man crumpled in the chair and reached for the device. His eyes caught something else on the computer screens. He pulled one of the keyboards closer and dismissed the window about the file transfer. Behind it was a slew of windows, filled with lists of files. With locations. Longitudes and latitudes. He glanced down that, wondering what the hell he was looking at. There was no indication from the title of the window, but one location was repeated many times. 39-23'17" North, 075-19'51" West. His mind raced. He'd looked at enough maps to know that was somewhere on the East Coast of the United States. _What the hell is this?_

The door slammed open. Batroc and his men barged inside. When they saw Steve, they stopped, eyes narrowing and jaws tightening. Steve grabbed the USB stick and pulled it from the computer. The terminal immediately shifted to some sort of self-deletion mode. Backing up from Batroc, he glanced at the computer as it methodically removed all of its files. All of the terminals and monitors in the room went dark at once. Red letters flashed on them in French, boldly proclaiming "SYSTEM SHUTDOWN COMPLETE". Whatever this thing was, it looked like Steve had the only copy of it clenched in his palm.

SHIELD's intelligence on Batroc indicated he was a man of few words, a man who preferred to get his messages across with actions, quickly, decisively, and violently. He stared at Steve, rage simmering behind dark blue eyes, a displeased frown twisting him lips. He said nothing, sneering slightly, as his men lifted their AK-47s and fired.

Steve ducked, holding tight to the USB stick and bringing his shield before him. Bullets clanked uselessly it, ringing loudly in the room and ricocheting wildly. Computer screens were hit, and they spat sparks and winked out. Steve gritted his teeth, placing the USB stick into his pocket. He twisted to reflect the fire back at the men shooting at him. One of them was hit, and that created enough of a lull for him to vault over one of the rows of consoles and jump toward the pirates. He sacrificed protection for a second, launching his shield at the other man firing at him. The powerful edge of it struck the man in the throat, and he went down against the filing cabinets behind them with a gurgle. Batroc was quick to charge when Steve was unarmed, though, coming at him with all the power and restraint of a freight train barreling down its tracks. Steve blocked the first strike, but another came right after it. It glanced against his forearm with surprising ferocity. They traded a series of quick blows, elegantly and expertly exchanged. Batroc spun, trying to land a kick against Steve's chest, but Steve ducked pushed the other man back into the filing cabinets. The impact was enough to dent the green metal and daze Batroc, but only for a second. He recovered and went after Steve hard and fast, forcing him back out of the room. Steve countered and blocked the storm of punches and kicks, flipping back on his hands and grabbing his fallen shield as he did. Batroc attacked at his second of relative weakness, raining blows down in a frenzy and driving Steve further back across the deck toward the other tower.

Frustrated, Steve gritted his teeth and regained his footing, digging his boots into the deck to find some purchase as he fought back. He caught Batroc's next punch against his shield and pivoted, knocking the other man's hand away and driving his own fist into the pirate's stomach. Though the strike would have dropped most men, Batroc showed no sign of pain, grabbing Steve's wrist against his own body and keeping it there to slam his shoulder into Steve's chest. Irritation and anger rushed over Steve; he normally tried to pull his punches against ordinary men if he could because he'd always rather disable someone than kill him. He'd learned early on as a super soldier that his strength was a weapon that required careful control, and a single lapse in that control could result in unintentionally crushed bones and mangled bodies. But Batroc was significantly stronger, faster, more muscled, and more skilled than the sort of henchmen, soldiers, and thugs against whom he normally fought. And Batroc obviously had no qualms about killing him. Murdering Captain America in arm to arm combat would probably be a hell of a trophy.

Steve yanked himself free of Batroc's hold, his back twinging a little for the effort, but that didn't slow him as he kicked his right foot into the pirate's thigh. That won him a grimace and a grunt, and in the split second Batroc faltered, Steve slammed his shield into the other man's chest. He was sent flying a good fifteen feet across the deck, landing roughly on his back and sliding a few feet more. Steve stood, breathing a little heavily but more from annoyance than actual exertion. Batroc was dazed for only a breath before springing back to his feet. He came at Steve even harder, maybe a little desperately like he was realizing he'd bit off perhaps more than he could chew, punching with all of his strength. Steve blocked every rapid strike, catching it against his shield or with his forearm. When Batroc backed off slightly, Steve wrapped his fist into the man's vest and yanked him down, ramming his knee up into Batroc's chest. Batroc used the momentum of the blow to disengage, and he was back across the deck again in a dizzying show of flips and acrobatics.

He landed firmly, eyeing Steve warily. He shook his head, as though in disgust. "They say the Red Guardian shattered you, crushed you down to nothing," he taunted in sloppy English. "Hide behind your pathetic shield. Weak. Scared." A smile curled the corner of his mouth. "Is that all you can do?"

Steve narrowed his eyes. He stood to his full height, glaring at his opponent. Then he slid his shield to his back. _"Nous verrons."_ The two slipped back into fighting stances, waiting and watching each other. Batroc grinned confidently, a feral, anticipatory glint in his eye, as he charged Steve again. He threw himself entirely into the melee, eager again to measure his own strength, agility, and prowess against Captain America. His strikes were savage, thrown with all his power behind them and aimed at Steve's chest and head, but Steve skillfully deflected them all. Not one of them landed. Batroc was fairly shocked by that, so much so that he got sloppy. It was barely an opening at all, not more than a beat, but Steve had been anticipating it. He landed his elbow in the man's face, knocking him back, and followed that with a hard kick to Batroc's shin. Batroc staggered. When he charged again, Steve hit him even harder. And when he tried to come at him a third time, Steve agilely jumped, flipping himself around completely and slamming his boots into Batroc's face in the process. He thudded back to the deck, watching in satisfaction as the pirate fell on his back.

Steve stood over him, looking down in disgust and ire as Batroc fought to get himself up. He was dizzy and unsteady, clumsily planting his feet beneath him. Now Steve was the one who gave a small, confident grin, running forward and tackling Batroc around his middle. The man yelped as they slammed back into the launch control room. Steve shoved the pirate to the floor under his weight, banging his head down, before throwing his fist unforgivingly into Batroc's face. Batroc went limp underneath him.

Panting slightly, Steve stood. It felt good to win this fight. Granted this man was no Red Skull or Red Guardian or Chitauri warrior, but he'd been formidable, and Steve had defeated him easily. The adrenaline slowly faded, and he glanced around for a lost and flustered moment. The control room was dark now, the empty computers flashing their warnings at him. That reminded him of what was in his pocket. He pulled the USB drive out. Then he released a short breath of surprise. He hadn't noticed before, but the drive had the SHIELD logo on it. For a brief moment he entertained the possibility that he'd grabbed the wrong one, that this was the one that Fury had given him, but that was in one of the pouches of his belt. He slipped his fingers inside and pulled it out. The two drives were nearly identical. The one that Fury had given him was slightly shorter and slightly wider. These were minute, cosmetic differences that were usually borne of one being an earlier or later model than the other. Steve didn't know what to make of this.

Unfortunately, there was no time to figure it out now. _"Batroc? Ici Berchard. Statut. Le contact est menace de partir."_ Steve glanced down at the walkie-talkie on the console. _"Merde Batroc. Quels sont vos ordres? On peut l'empechêr de partir."_

Steve grabbed the walkie-talkie. _"Arrêtez-le. Nous arrivons."_ He put the empty drive Fury gave him back in his belt and slid the other into his pocket. Then he ran. He needed to get back to the bridge and find out who this contact was before he lost him.

It was already too late. _"Batroc! Il s'en va! Batroc!"_

_Damn it._ Steve sprinted, bounding over the deck of the ship. He charged up staircases, taking the steps three or four at a time. After crossing the amidships well where the cargo hold was, he leapt from the lower deck to the higher one, grabbing the railing and hauling himself over it before running as fast as possible toward the forward sections of the ship. He glanced up at the bridge where it was bathed in the ship's harsh lights. He saw the contact, a blur of gray and black and pale flesh, dispensing with the pirates. After that, he was gone, probably heading down the stairwell to the deck below in an attempt to escape this deal gone wrong. Steve ground his teeth together, swinging starboard and pressing all the speed he could from himself. He was stronger than anyone, faster than anyone, so this person sure as hell wasn't getting away without answering some questions first.

Steve raced along the railing of the starboard side. Ahead he could see the gangway leading down to the pier. Sure enough, a dark figure was running down it. There was a crackle of gunfire, and the figure whirled, pulling a pistol from his suit that he unloaded at the pirates shooting at him. He tossed the spent weapon into the water between the ship and the pier. Steve watched him make his way toward a black SUV on the dock, parked not far from the building in which he'd been hiding before. Steve wasted not a second, taking a running leap. He cleared the rise of the railing easily and jumped down the dozens of feet to the pier. He landed gracefully, tucking himself into a roll and ducking behind a pile of crates between him and SUV. He heard the car door open and close. The engine roared. _Stop him!_ Steve wrenched his shield from behind his back, planning on throwing it into some vital area of the car to disable it, but before he could the SUV burst through the crates and hit him in the chest. His shield absorbed most of the impact, but he hadn't been prepared for that and pain rattled up his arms and down his torso and thighs. Steve yelped, digging his boots into the pier to push back, but he didn't have a lot of leverage. With a growl of frustration and all of his strength he lifted his arms slightly and managed to get the edge of his shield down through the soft metal of the car's hood. That was all he needed to propel himself up.

He flipped onto the roof of the SUV. Whoever was driving it veered wildly as it raced down the pier. Steve struggled to hang on for a second as the car beneath him violently lurched and flew over bumps and whatever happened to be in its course. The driver was furiously attempting to dislodge him with the rough ride, the car nearly tipping as a turn to the right was taken way too fast. The sleek surface didn't provide much in terms of grips, but this SUV had a roof rack that he was able to get his fingers around to prevent himself from tumbling off. He pulled himself to the driver's side, balled his left fist, and smashed it through the window. "Get your foot off the gas!" he shouted. They were outside of the pier now and speeding through the shipping yards. Thank God it was late; there weren't people around to be endangered by them haphazardly tearing through the place. Steve reached his hand into the car and grabbed the steering wheel. One twist of his wrist could send the car off course. He'd survive a crash, but the driver might not. "Get off the gas!"

That apparently wasn't enough of a threat. Or the driver didn't speak English. Steve gritted his teeth in irritation and worry, ducking as a low hanging arm of a construction crane nearly clipped him. They'd careened through most of the shipping yards and were now cutting across freight rail track. Ahead a train engine was dark and idle. They'd hit it in a matter of seconds. Steve blindly reached back toward the seat, curled his strong fingers around a fleshy neck, and yelled again, "_Arrêtez!_ Stop!"

The SUV suddenly shrieked as the driver slammed on the brakes. The car hit the steel rail of the tracks too fast and partly turned, ripping around and off the ground. Steve let go before he was crushed, colliding with the ground hard on his shoulder but lithely somersaulting away and up onto his knees. The SUV landed upside down with a loud screech and smashing noise, spinning and rolling before settling against the engine into which it would have crashed.

The stench of burning rubber and exhaust was strong in the heavy, moist air. A couple of the SUV's tires were still spinning. The passenger side was crumpled against the train engine. Breathing heavily, Steve paused a second. He slid his shield to his back again and walked to the wrecked car, the gravel of the train yard crunching under his boots. The man within was already trying to get himself out, scrambling to crawl through the broken window. Steve could see now he was bald and wore an expensive suit and glasses. _Can't be._ He reached down and grabbed the man by the neck as he struggled to free his legs. He hauled him up.

Sitwell stared at him. He stared at Sitwell. "What the hell?" Steve asked. He dropped the other man, alarm coursing over him and leaving him more than confused. He was completely shocked. "What are you doing here, Sitwell?"

"Could ask the same of you, Rogers!" Sitwell coughed a little. His nose was broken if the blood and swelling was any indication. He struggled for a moment, hacking more into the now filthy sleeve of his once pristine suit. He wiped at the sore and weeping wound on his face. "Fury sent me. Christ."

Steve grimaced and took a step back. That couldn't be right. "Fury sent you?"

"Yes," Sitwell said. "Of course he sent me! You think this is what I do on my own time?" He doubled over, hands planted on his knees and fighting to catch his wind, spitting a bloody mouthful to the ground. Steve's mind raced, trying to make heads or tails of this. Why would Fury have sent him in if he already had Sitwell embedded in Batroc's operation as an informant or a mole? And Sitwell wasn't a field agent. It didn't make any sense. Sitwell seemed equally puzzled and flustered. "What the hell? If this is someone's idea of a joke, it isn't fucking funny. We could have killed each other!"

Steve stepped back again. He was reeling. This… Something wasn't right about this. He didn't know what to say, a storm of thoughts and emotions bursting through his brain. He couldn't placate his suspicion. "Fury didn't tell me anything about you being here," he said.

"There are a lot of things Fury doesn't tell you." It was impossible to read Sitwell's tone. He was tense and frustrated, but was that a statement meant to bait him or upset him? To make him doubt what Fury had told him? It was more than obvious the agent was angry, which made sense. Steve had likely just wrecked this whole operation, not to mention threatening his life. But Sitwell, having finally caught his breath, only straightened and regarded him with blazing eyes. "Did you get it at least?"

He knew about what Sitwell was asking. The agent had clearly been sent to buy it, after all. Steve tensed, every muscle in his body going taut like a pulled bow string. That suspicion was becoming louder and louder, a whisper then a whine and now a wail. "What is it?"

Sitwell didn't appreciate his question. "Did you get it?"

Steve didn't appreciate his lack of an answer, either. "What is it?"

"If Fury didn't feel the need to tell you, then you don't need to know."

Steve bristled, but he'd learned a thing or two from Natasha about keeping his features in check. His expression was a wrathful one, betraying nothing of how very confused and shaken he was. He didn't know who was lying, Sitwell or Fury. Or maybe they both were lying and he was being played. It wouldn't be the first time SHIELD had sent him into a situation without being honest about why. It used to not bother him so much, but that was before Fury's duplicity about Brushov's insanity serum had nearly cost him his life and the woman he loved. "Unless you tell me the truth, it's staying out of your hands," he said. "Now what the hell is going on? Why are you here and what is on the drive?"

Sitwell stared at him evenly for a moment, probably judging him and gauging the best way to extricate himself from this mess while still getting what he needed. Maybe he was as surprised and as lost as Steve was, trying to figure out if Steve was being truthful with him. With all the whispers and unrest crawling in the shadows around SHIELD of late, it was probably only natural. Then the man closed his eyes a little and slumped as though in defeat. Steve belatedly realized it wasn't defeat. It was pain. There was blood on Sitwell's white dress shirt over his lower left torso. He really was banged up. Steve's anger cooled instantly, and he took a step closer to steady the smaller man. "How badly are you hurt?"

It was a crack of concern in his hard visage, and that was all it took. Sitwell moved fast, pulling a handgun from under his suit jacket and jabbing it into Steve's chest. Steve immediately backed off. The gun didn't waver, and Sitwell's face was the picture of calm control. "Give me the goddamn drive," he demanded coolly, "or I'll put another bullet in your heart. Something tells me you won't be so lucky this time."

Steve darted his eyes between the muzzle of the weapon sticking into his breast and Sitwell's hard gaze. He'd just about had it with all of this. Steeling himself, he chanced that Sitwell was probably a little rusty from so many hours behind a desk and manning logistics from operations control. And he was Captain America. So he moved fast, faster than Sitwell could really stop, and grabbed the wrist that held the gun. Sitwell predictably yanked the trigger, but Steve had already destroyed his aim. Even at this close range he'd done it quickly enough for the bullet to miss anything vital and hit his shoulder instead. He didn't even flinch in pain, giving Sitwell's wrist a nasty twist that snapped it. The man howled and went down on his knees, dropping the gun. Steve kicked it away, digging his strong fingers into Sitwell's broken hand to keep him down. "What's on the drive?" he demanded. Sitwell yowled loudly. Steve shoved him away, and Sitwell fell into the gravel, holding his damaged limb tight to his chest. Steve towered over him, not caring one bit if he seemed threatening or menacing. "Answer me, goddamn it! What's on it?"

Sitwell was bathed in sweat now. It rolled in fat beads from the crown of his head and down his brow and temples. His eyes were tight with fear. Still, he mustered a sneer. "This really isn't your style, Rogers," he said, his voice teeming with false bravado.

Steve managed a tight smile. "You don't think so? I've picked up a few things from Agent Romanoff."

"You won't kill me," Sitwell gasped. But he didn't look as sure as he might have been. Steve thought that was encouraging. Maybe he could actually maintain this bluff. He said nothing, standing over Sitwell, letting him fret and worry for a second. "You won't."

"SHIELD isn't what is used to be," Steve said lowly, "and maybe I'm not, either. Now what's on the drive? Tell me."

Sitwell stared up at him. "You don't change. And you don't scare me, Cap." Steve stepped closer, clenching his hands into fists at his sides, and Sitwell actually scooted back on his rear, scrambling to get away. He was terrified. "Alright!" he gasped. Steve couldn't help but feel proud of himself, but he sure as hell didn't let it get to his face. "Alright! It's an algorithm."

"An algorithm?"

"Yes! An algorithm! You know what that is, don't you?" Sitwell sighed and shook his head, exasperated and deeply shaken. "God, they're going to kill me…"

"What does the algorithm do? What's it for?"

Sitwell squeezed his eyes shut, like he was wondering if this was real or some sort of nightmare. Like he couldn't quite believe he was saying what he was saying. "The future," he said.

Steve shook his head. He'd had it with this cryptic nonsense. "What does that mean?"

"Batroc… Rumlow delivered it to him. He was holding it off-site to keep it safe. They were testing it."

"Who?"

"WorldCom. They own the _Lemurian Star_. They were running simulations, you know, beta-testing. Statistical analysis. Fine tuning it for deployment. I'm a dead man."

Steve couldn't make sense of this. Whatever was going on, it went far beyond a simple mole in SHIELD or Rumlow consorting with criminals. "What deployment?" he asked. Sitwell sputtered uselessly for a moment. "What deployment?"

"Project: Insight," Sitwell finally answered. He spit the words out quickly, like it would be easier to talk if he did it quickly. He turned blazing eyes on Steve, eyes that were filled with horror and rage. "You don't know what that is, do you? You have no idea what's going on. You have no idea what's inside SHIELD. What SHIELD _really_ is. You're messing around with things you can't possibly defeat. Not you. Not the Avengers." Steve stepped back slightly, disturbed. Sitwell reached for him. "They're coming, Rogers! And when they get here, you're either going to be with them or you're going to be dead." His words were coming faster and faster, fueled by panic. "They probably won't even give you a choice."

"Who?" Sitwell faltered anew, flushed and panting and looking at the ground like he was realizing the depths of the situation. His eyes were wide. Steve lost his patience, reaching down and grabbing Sitwell by the shoulder. _"Who?"_

Sitwell opened his mouth to answer, but there was a loud crack, and his chest exploded with a spray of blood. He screamed, grabbing for the pulsing hole in his torso, but before he even fell forward, two more shots loudly resounded in the night. They ripped right through him like his body was nothing. One of them exited and clipped Steve in the leg. But it didn't slow him as he moved, whipping his shield from his back to protect both himself and Sitwell from the sniper and crouching over the fallen man. He grabbed Sitwell by the arm and dragged him as quickly as he could around the SUV, glancing wildly around in search of the shooter. The night was silent, and there was no one.

Steve was breathing heavily, his thigh and shoulder throbbing and his heart pounding, as he crouched over Sitwell behind his shield. He looked down to find the other man dead, his chest covered in blood. Still he pressed his fingers to Sitwell's neck in a futile search for a pulse. Then he leaned back, too alarmed to think for an endless moment. He had to get out of here. There were _far_ too many places for a sniper to hide in this dark, shadowy rail yard. Crane cabs. Towers. The tops of innumerable cargo cars and ship containers. He had to escape. Right now.

But he forced himself to stay still. Running across open ground was an invitation to get killed. The night was heavy and hot, and Steve listened, straining to detect any sound. It was eerily quiet, the echo of those three shots thunderous in the heavy stillness. Steve had hearing and sight that far surpassed a normal man's, but this sniper was devastatingly silent and invisible. He struggled to calm his own racing pulse and fast breathing. The holes in Sitwell's chest were sizeable, which indicated a large caliber bullet and a powerful gun, which then suggested the shooter could be quite far away. Steve didn't think so, though. That distinctive feeling of being watched, of being _hunted_, crawled over his skin. He pressed his back to the train engine behind him and made himself relax and wait. If the sniper had a clear shot of him, he'd have taken it by now. The direction from which Sitwell had been shot suggested he didn't. If he stayed still, the assassin might be forced to come out of hiding.

That plan worked all too well. Steve heard the sound of boots hitting the SUV beside him, and he whirled just in time to avoid being sprayed in the face by an automatic rifle. The shots struck his shield, powerful enough at this close range to force him to retreat slightly. Steve gritted his teeth, keeping his shield covering as much of himself as possible, as he moved away from the train engine. Eventually the sniper realized this wasn't going to accomplish anything, so he tossed the rifle and jumped down. Steve got a decent look at him then, at least as decent as he could given the flash of silver and the metal hand barreling into his shield. It struck _hard_, much harder than he anticipated. The loud _clang_ vibrated down his arms. The gravel gave way under his boots and he was shoved back into the unforgiving train engine again. He hardly had time to bring his other arm up and block a harsh blow directed at his flank, but he did. And he got his knee between them and kicked the sniper back forcefully.

The man staggered. Completely dressed in black combat gear, he blended with the sable folds of the heavy night around them. Aside from that silver arm – Steve had seen prosthetics before of course but _never _anything like that – he was barely visible in the darkness. He had shoulder-length brown hair that was limp and unkempt. He wore a black mask that completely obscured his face save for his eyes, eyes that were thickly rimmed in kohl. Steve only had a second to see them, but there was something about them, something he couldn't place, but something that clenched his heart. Then the assassin was on him again.

They fought. It was fast and hard and violent. Steve couldn't spare a thought to even wonder who this person was, this person who was as quick and strong and resilient as he was. The assassin drew another handgun, rapidly pointing it at Steve who ducked behind his shield again and circled him as he fired. All of the bullets hit vibranium, and when the clip was spent, Steve rushed in, driving his fist down into the other's face. He barely fell back with the blow, immediately dropping as Steve launched a roundhouse kick at him. His foot uselessly sailed through the air, and the assassin took the opportunity to hit him across the face. Steve retaliated, slamming his shield down into the elbow of the metal arm, but it didn't give like he'd hoped. The assassin snatched the edge of his shield, giving a powerful twist that spun Steve through the air and caused his arm to slip out of the straps. The next thing he knew the sniper kicked him back into the train engine, and his shield was in the hands of the enemy.

Steve fought to control his breathing, watching the man watch him, before gathering his wits and his will and charging. He didn't hold back, flinging punch after punch at him, but his knuckles painfully collided with his own shield. He directed his next attack to the left, hoping to draw the assassin away from protecting his chest. When that succeeded, he rammed his knee into the other man. The blow was hard enough to send him sprawling, and Steve followed, hoping to gain some advantage. The man swept his legs out from under him and was back on his feet in a breath. With a streak of silver Steve saw that metal fist careen down toward him. He rolled just in time, the punch meant for his head driving into the ground where he had been, pulverizing dirt and pebbles to dust. Steve smoothly stood, simultaneously grabbing at his shield, yanking it around, and kicking the assassin in his back. That freed his shield, which he snatched back onto his arm, and he turned to run.

One mighty leap onto the overturned SUV had him off the ground, and the next took him onto the top of the adjacent train car. He sprinted down the top of the train, trying to find a spot where the next over was close enough to make the jump. He found it. Steve rolled when he struck the top of another freight car before bounding to the next. And the next. He knew the assassin was behind him, but ahead he could see the other side of the train yard. There was a high fence and beyond that Algiers rose into the hills. If he could make it to the city, maybe he could lose his pursuer.

It wasn't going to be that simple. He heard a gun firing, and he turned to protect his back. The one second he had to slow down to do that destroyed his lead, and the assassin was there, jumping onto the train car behind him. The man came at him, shooting again, quick blasts that Steve blocked but that prevented him from really steadying himself. The train below them jerked into sudden motion, and Steve staggered and lost his balance. He ended up flat on his back, and the dark shadow came fast, shooting again. Steve felt the bullets hit his shield. He kicked up and out and felt the satisfying contact of his boot with the other man's chest. The assassin was knocked back by the force, and he tripped over his feet and fell off the side of the train.

Steve sprung back upward. He was panting as he fell into a defensive fighting stance, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the jolt from the tender areas in his back. The train was moving faster now as it pulled away from the shipping yards and chugged west along the coast. His quick eyes devoured the shadows, staring intently along the sides of the freight car. The steady _clickety-clack_ of the wheels on the rails and the squeak and squeal of the cars against each other was deafening. When seconds upon seconds passed without any sign of the assassin, Steve sighed softly and entertained half a hope that this was over.

It wasn't. The barely visible flash of that metal arm in the meager light saved him from being stabbed in the throat. The assassin threw himself back to the top of the train car, knife spinning capably. Steve caught his balance and the blade just in time against the edge of his shield, the weapon shrieking awfully as it slid down the vibranium. The assassin whirled and tried to stab him again, unleashing a sequence of quick slashes and cuts that Steve blocked. He traded the knife to the other hand almost faster than Steve could see, and the blade whipped towards him before he could counter. The knife dug into his flank and he grunted, turning and slamming his head into the assassin's face. The man stumbled back, and Steve grabbed the blade still embedded in his side and yanked it loose. The pain was fiery, but he was alright; the wound wasn't deep. However, the man was on him again, unrelenting and unmerciful. Who was he? How could he fight like this?

The train rattled and rumbled, speeding along now up the hills outside Algiers. The terrain turned rocky, lined with dry shrubs and sandy stone. The fight continued wildly for a moment more, unhinged and violent. Steve had the assassin about the throat, squeezing hard, his lips pulled back from his teeth with the effort of holding him like this. He twisted, slamming the other man down onto the top of the train car with a bang and rattle and held him there. The assassin scrambled, searching for some way to get free, the flesh and blood hand digging at Steve's fingers and the metal one trapped under Steve's knee. "Who are you?" Steve demanded. It was so damn dark he could hardly see anything except the shine of that metal arm. "Who? Who are you?"

A knee found its way into his belly, and Steve was flipped head over heels. He landed roughly on his back, his shield clattering uselessly from arm and falling from the train. The assassin drew another knife, and Steve caught it in its descent just as it was about to reach his face. He rolled, taking the blade and the man holding it with him, and pushed him away. He wasn't sure this was a fight he could win. They were so evenly matched. He had to end this. He had to escape.

The assassin crouched low and sprung at him. Steve batted away the knife and the punch that followed it. The train was high in the hills, heading toward a trestle bridge that went over a river if the swishing sound and smell of fresh water was any indication. Steve twisted, light on his feet, and kicked at the other man twice. The second hit and it hit hard. The assassin staggered to the side of the car, but as he fell he reached for Steve and got a hand on his ankle. They both went over the edge.

Steve howled, feeling the bullet in his shoulder grind against bone and muscle as his fingers latched onto the edge of the train car. Fiery agony arced up his arm, numbing his hand. Still, he held on, even with the entirety of the other man's weight on his foot. The river was churning maybe a hundred feet below them. Steve scrambled to get his other hand onto the edge, desperate to reinforce his grasp especially when he felt the assassin pull himself up. The metal hand was around his ankle, digging painfully into his flesh through the padding of his boot, and Steve winced and tried to kick and dislodge the sniper. He couldn't. He felt fingers curl into the cloth of his uniform pants, balling into it for leverage as the assassin _climbed_ him back up to the top of the train car. And he felt the man's hand slip around him, reaching for his belt and the pouches attached to it. Reaching for his pockets.

_No way in hell!_ He bucked as frantically as he could, even if that threatened his grip on the car. He sacrificed one hand on the edge to reach behind him and take a fistful of hair, trying to pull the weight off his back. The man wrapped both his legs around Steve's right thigh to hold on, reaching searching fingers into his pockets. The pressure on his damaged shoulder was intense and miserable. Steve finally found some purchase with the toes of his boots and pushed himself up, flinging the assassin to the side. The river was rushing by below them. In a matter of seconds, it would be gone. He had to go. His uniform was waterproof, so the USB drive and whatever was on it would be safe if he could just _get away_. He elbowed the other man in the face and let go of the train.

The assassin caught his wrist.

Steve shouted wordlessly in anger and pain, looking up at the man clinging to the edge of the car. The metal fingers were crushingly tight around him, refusing to release him. Refusing to let go of his catch. Steve struggled, trying to lift his body to get his other hand up to pry himself free, but when he did he caught a glimpse of the man's eyes again. Their gazes locked for just a moment.

And the assassin let him go.

It took a second before Steve realized what was happening. And he didn't understand at all. Still, there was nothing he could do or say before he was tumbling down through the darkness and splashing into the river below.

* * *

___Notre contact arrive dans cinq minutes._ – Our contact is arriving in five minutes.  
_Compris. – _Understood.  
___Escortez-le vers le pont. Puis appelez Durand. Je veux que tout soit bouclé dans trente minutes._ – Escort him to the bridge. Then call Durand. I want to be underway in thirty minutes.  
_Oui, Batroc. – _Yes, Batroc.  
_Le contact est ici. – _The contact is here.  
___Préparez le paquet. Nous sommes sur le chemin du retour._ – Prepare the package. We are on the way back.  
_Vous me recevez? – _Do you read me?  
_A-t-il apporté de l'argent?_ – Did he bring the money?  
___Tenez-vous prêt maintenant._ – Get it ready now.  
_Tout de suite, Batroc. – _Right away, Batroc.  
___Ras le bol de cette connerie._ – Sick of this fucking bullshit.  
___Dépêchez-vous, putain! Ils arrivent!_ – Hurry the hell up! They're coming!  
___Qu'est-ce que c'est, ce paquet?_ – What's the package?  
_Nous verrons. – _We'll see.  
___Batroc? Ici Berchard. Statut. Le contact est menace de partir._ – Batroc, this is Berchard. Status. The contact is threatening to leave.  
___Merde Batroc. Quels sont vos ordres? On peut l'empechêr de partir._ – Shit, Batroc. What are your orders? We can stop him.  
___Arrêtez-le. Nous arrivons._ – Stop him. We're coming.  
___Batroc! Il s'en va! Batroc!_ – Batroc, he's on the move! Batroc!  
_Arrêtez! – _Stop!


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Authorunable, nope, you're not pestering me. Not in the least! This story I have planned for the Howling Commandos will be multi-chaptered. I have a vague outline for it started, but I'll check the MCU Wiki as you suggested to help flesh it out. That's a great website and a great resource, BTW. :-)

Well, let's see what Clint thinks about all this…

**TERMINAL FROST**

**5**

When Nick Fury didn't want to be found, it was impossible to find him. He could hide, _vanish_ in the truest sense of the word, like no one else could. He was master spy, an expert at disappearing and covering his tracks, an artisan at concealment. He could elude anyone anywhere. He was a ghost, a shadow, the best at what he did.

But so was Clint. Clint had joined SHIELD as a hired killer, a man who sold his considerable services with a sword, sniper rifle, and bow to whomever had the deepest pockets. His journey along life's darker roads had begun in his youth, when his drunken, abusive father had killed himself and his mother and landed him and his brother, Barney, in a hellish orphanage. They'd lived there, accosted by bullies and lost in social services system of Iowa, before they'd split when Clint had been twelve. They'd been fortunate enough to have been picked up by a travelling circus after that, a circus full of odd sorts, disreputable criminals, and swindlers though neither of them had realized it at the time. Clint had always had talent at stealthy movement and a sharp eye, and he'd immediately caught the attention of Swordsman and Trickshot, two of the circus' strongest members. They'd trained him as a marksman and a killer, and Clint had nearly been drawn into their schemes before Barney had gotten him out of there. Barney had gone off to join the army and then the FBI, where he'd fallen in with the wrong crowd and was killed. Clint had become a marine for a period when he'd foolishly thought he could get past his anger and bitterness and be a soldier. He'd discovered then that he wasn't terribly proficient at taking orders (well, he'd known that before from the trouble he'd had in school and with the police and with his brother and pretty much with anyone who had authority over him). He liked to do things on his own, to get it done his way, to be self-sufficient and self-directed. And he'd realized in fairly short order that the anger and bitterness were as much a part of him as his eyes or his heart and weren't just going to go away. His skillset and mindset weren't overly suited for a normal life (at least, what he'd been taught a normal life should be. He didn't think he'd ever had one). Barney's fate hadn't much deterred him from the dangers of work as an assassin, and if it hadn't been for Nick Fury chasing him down one night in the slums of Mumbai to procure his services for SHIELD, he probably would have died or lost himself. He wasn't sure which would have been worse.

Fury had come to hire him as an assassin. If that wasn't an indication of how far he'd fallen into darkness, he didn't know what was. He'd made a hell of a reputation for himself in the black world of killers-for-hire and bounty hunters, and SHIELD had been in need of his skillset to eliminate a member of the Iranian government who was funneling money into terrorist groups in Palestine. To this day he still didn't know if Fury had truly needed his help or had simply wanted a way in, an excuse to get close to him and turn him because the job had been a setup and the CIA had been waiting. He'd been alone in a prison cell in the US when Fury had come and offered Clint a choice: whatever sort of fate he would find at the mercy of the CIA or a job with SHIELD. Clint had never forgotten what Fury had said to him. _"You have talent, but talent won't get you anywhere without direction. Work with me, and you'll always know your place."_ To a kid with no home, no family, and no future beyond the next kill and the next payment, that had meant something.

So SHIELD had become his life. It hadn't been easy at first. Fury had taught him things about espionage he'd never imagined were possible. Things about distance, about focus, about deciding when and how to pull the trigger, about manipulation and murder, but things about right and wrong as well. About making sure the ends justified the means. Despite his training under Fury (or maybe because of it), it hadn't been easy to let himself trust others, and he'd been something of a loner for years before he'd come under Phil Coulson's wing. Coulson had been… _different_ from the other senior agents, with knowing eyes that didn't judge and wise words that stuck with Clint for years to come. Coulson had been the one to ease that anger and bitterness, not get rid of it because it was _never_ going to go away, but make it manageable and something Clint could use to make himself better. Clint had led the STRIKE Team for a couple years, SHIELD's finest assassin and best black ops soldier, an asset unlike any other. And when he'd been dispatched to kill Black Widow, his life had changed again. Now he was the one teaching and guiding, setting someone else on a better path. For the first time in his life, he'd felt stable, certain of where he belonged and what he needed to do.

Then Loki had stuck his cruel, greedy fingers into his head, and everything had gone to hell.

Coulson was dead. Despite saving the world as one of the Avengers, Clint had apparently been blacklisted by the World Security Council as a threat because of the damage he'd done while under Loki's control. And Natasha was with Rogers. That hadn't bothered him so much when it had happened, but it was getting to him now, more and more. It wasn't so much that he loved her (he thought he did, but not so much in a romantic way). And it wasn't that he didn't like Rogers. The guy was Captain America. It was impossible not to like him for that reason alone. Clint didn't know him all that well despite working together during the Battle of New York because the vast majority of the time leading up to the fight he'd spent at the whims of the enemy. They'd done a few missions together with the STRIKE Team when Steve had first joined SHIELD, and Clint had found him to be as loyal, friendly, and agreeable as he'd seemed. Maybe the relationship between Steve and Natasha was improbable, but it was working for both of them. Clint could see that in Natasha now, see how happy she was (if happiness was something one could use to describe anyone in their line of work). It wasn't obvious, but she was at peace with herself for the first time since Clint had met her. He was glad about that. He was glad that she had found a good man to love her.

But the _loss_ of her in his life hurt more than he'd anticipated. She was still there, had been since Rogers had been put on medical leave, but she wasn't who she'd had been. She was someone else, someone new, someone forged by what had happened in Crimea and what she felt for Rogers. Someone calmer and different than he'd known. And she didn't need him anymore, at least not like she had. Not as an outlet for her pain and frustration and fear. Not as her confidant. It bothered him. He wasn't jealous (alright, maybe he was a little), but he was lost without her. It wasn't as if she'd been reliant on him (far from it, in fact), but there had always been this trust between them, this unwavering faith she'd had in him, and now that faith was in someone else.

And her faith in SHIELD was shaken. He knew it was. His was, too. What had happened to Rogers had injured them all somehow. Clint couldn't put his finger on what or how or when, but something had changed. It had been growing for a while, stirring in the shadows. As much as he had tried to be dismissive of Garanin's warning, he couldn't deny that it had stoked the fires of his doubts. SHIELD had been changing since New York. It was almost like Fury bringing Captain America onboard had been a last-ditch effort to keep things noble and just. And when Captain America had come home from Russia with his back broken and a bullet in his heart, Clint knew everything was now coming to a head. And he wasn't sure what could be done to stop it.

So here he was, seated in the back of the SUV parked in the Triskelion's dimly-lit garage, waiting patiently. And when Fury finally opened the driver's door and slid inside, he didn't waste any time. "What the hell is going on?"

Nothing ever surprised Nick Fury, not that Clint was there or that he had somehow figured out his schedule and tracked his movements all day through the Triskelion like a shadow without the Director noticing. He afforded his top agent a glance in the rearview mirror and sighed. "Start engine," he ordered. The masculine voice of the SUV's computer system responded to the command, and the car came to life. "I'm late for a meeting with Senator Stern and the Armed Services Committee, Barton. And you have a job to do, if I'm not mistaken."

"Right. Escorting some scientists from the Sandbox to New York. They can wait for their security guard." Clint didn't make any effort to hide his disdain for the orders he'd received from Hill that morning. Orders for a mission that was like all the other missions he'd been assigned over the last few months. Clint leaned forward in his seat. "I want to know where you sent Rogers. He's overdue two days. Where is he?"

Fury's glare turned sharp and irritated. "How the hell do you know he's overdue?" Then he sighed in annoyance. "He told Romanoff, and Romanoff told you." Honestly, it hadn't been difficult to figure out that Steve was gone on a mission. Even if Natasha hadn't told him, the rumors around the Triskelion had been rampant that Secretary Pierce and Fury had had some kind of debate concerning reinstating Rogers to active duty. Secretary Pierce had allegedly won the argument, but Rogers had never reported in, at least not that anyone had noticed. And later that day the Triskelion had been buzzing with rumors that Rogers was on his way to New York to meet with Tony Stark, that he was benched until he had a full medical and psych assessment, that he was quitting SHIELD, that he was _gone_ doing anything and everything other than what he was really doing. Clint knew the signs of a cover-up well enough. "Son of a bitch," Fury grunted.

"The guy's a soldier, not a spy," Clint said. "With all due respect, you shouldn't have expected anything else."

Fury didn't appreciate that sentiment. "Who else knows?"

"No one. Why does it matter? What did you send him to do?" Fury looked away, clenching his jaw in anger and throwing the car into drive. He sped from the garage, taking the turns a little rougher and sharper than necessary. Clint said nothing as Fury drove down the bridge over the Potomac and headed out into DC. He let the silence persist a moment more, uncertain if there was anything he could say or do to wrest what he wanted to know from Fury. "Natasha's worried."

Apparently that wasn't it. "She needs to remember she's an agent of SHIELD, not some pining girlfriend," Fury hotly responded. There was something else in his voice, though. Clint had rarely heard it over the years, but it was there now. Guilt. "Did she put you up to this, Barton?"

"No, sir." That morning Natasha had approached him with her worries. He could see immediately from her pale face and uncertain eyes that she was scared. Someone who didn't know her as well as he did might not have seen the signs. She hadn't asked him to do this, to hunt Fury down and corner him like this. She'd only inquired if he'd heard anything or seen anything, _anything _about Rogers. He hadn't. And he'd asked her if she'd spoken with Pierce about Rogers' departure. She hadn't. The quick encounter had left them both wanting more information, some sense that this suspicion wasn't getting worse like an untended wound festering with infection. The rumors swirling around Rogers' disappearance were spinning so wickedly fast that it was impossible to determine who was spreading them and who was listening. And Natasha had been unsettled by it all. Clint always did what he could for her without her asking. He was here because it was so engrained into him to help her, to protect her and guide her, that he couldn't do anything else. "But she's got good reason to be worried."

As Fury drove the SUV onto the causeway headed towards the city, his eye glanced in the rearview mirror again, and Clint knew right then and there that he was worried, too. That small look was telling. And Fury wasn't just concerned about Rogers' well-being. He was afraid over something more. Clint had figured whatever Fury had sent Rogers out to do was important, so much so as to dispatch Captain America and go through all that effort to hide it. But seeing that small crack in Fury's normally impenetrable façade was enough to confirm everything he feared. "Send me out," he offered. "Let me at least assess the situation. Let me find him."

"It's too damn late," Fury commented lowly.

"If he's in trouble, we have to help him," Clint said. "He may be the world's best soldier, but he's probably shit at covering his tracks. And if someone's captured or killed him, I doubt they're gonna keep quiet about it. I can find him and bring him back."

"The last thing we need is having to explain another agent out in the field on a mission that shouldn't exist," Fury said darkly. They were deeper into the city now, heading toward the government buildings. Clint tried to swallow down his frustration. Honestly, he hadn't expected Fury to agree to let him go after Rogers. SHIELD simply didn't operate that way, and he damn well knew it. An agent was expected to get it done, and unless there was solid, irrefutable proof that the mission had failed or the agent's life was in substantial and imminent danger, backup wasn't sent in. Being a couple of days late did not constitute compelling evidence. Clint had spent his life compartmentalizing, knowing just enough to get the job done without questioning what he had or hadn't been told. He'd convinced himself even before coming to SHIELD when he'd been an assassin for hire that it was better he not know the truth. The truth was a liability, a collar and a crutch, a weakness that he could rarely afford. This system worked well for both the agent and the handler; ignorance was true protection. But now… He just needed to know. If there was a threat, he needed to see it and understand it and face it head on. He needed to do what Rogers always did: stand in the way of evil.

He didn't care for this damn role reversal. "What the hell's going on, Nick?" He rarely called Fury by his first name, particularly in these last years when he'd fallen so completely into his place at SHIELD. "I feel like everything's just… falling apart. It started months ago, maybe after New York, but the Cap getting shot just pushed it and now…" Clint shook his head and sagged slightly into the backseat of the SUV. He suddenly felt older and worn. Jaded. "If there's something I can do, I'll do it."

"It's not that simple."

Clint shook his head, angered and frightened by the note of defeat disgracing Fury's tone. "Make it that simple."

"Incoming call from Agent Hill," the computer declared. "Emergency. Security encryption enabled."

Fury glanced at Clint in the rearview mirror again. The stiffening of his body was slight, hardly anything. Clint's heart pumped just a bit faster and harder against his ribs. For a second he feared Fury would cut him out, not take the call or even pull over to the goddamn side of the road and make him get out of the car. But he didn't. "Put it through."

Hill's face appeared in the holographic interface on the upper right hand corner of the windshield. "Hill, this had better be important," Fury irately said.

"Sir, there's a situation developing. Things are chaotic, sketchy, and I'm not sure where this is coming from. Secretary Pierce apparently sent the STRIKE Team out to assess the situation, but–"

"What is it?" Fury demanded. His tone was sharp and impatient.

Hill hesitated a moment, but she was too hardened an agent to do more than that. "Reports are coming in that Sitwell's dead."

Fury stopped the car at a red light, and that was just as well because time seemed to slow to a halt for a second. Clint could hardly believe what he'd heard. Sitwell dead? _Holy shit._ "Where?" Fury asked. "When?"

"It's not clear right now. The STRIKE Team is refusing to disclose information to me. They want to speak directly with Pierce." Clint's mind was reeling at that. Sitwell was a decent guy and an excellent agent; what the hell had he been doing out in the field on an op of which neither Fury nor Hill had been aware? And there was a chain of command in SHIELD for a reason. Hill was Deputy Director. _Everyone _answered to her, with the exception of the Director and the Secretary of Defense. "I'm trying to get a handle on it, sir, but something's not right about this." Fury didn't seem fazed. Clint wasn't sure if it was because he'd expected something like this or if he was simply too experienced to have the grief over the death of a subordinate pierce his exterior. "They're saying he was involved in some sort of botched deal with pirates in Algiers, but there's nothing on the mission roster and I can't confirm that at this point. I can't even confirm he's dead."

That did get through Fury's cool visage. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "I need you here now. Deep shadow conditions."

Hill's jaw clenched. "I need four hours."

"You have three." Fury didn't have a chance to say anything more. Clint lurched forward as their SUV was suddenly and violently rammed in the rear. His head smacked against the leather of Fury's headrest, and for a moment he couldn't breathe, pain slicing through his brain and leaving him dazed. When he finally managed to focus and suck enough air through clenched teeth to catch his wind, the car was struck again on his side. The door was reinforced so it didn't buckle, but he was thrown across the backseat by the impact. The engine roared as Fury floored it, but the rear of the SUV was elevated on top of the hood of the car behind him. The tires weren't making contact with the road. "Shit!"

Clint shook his head, trying to clear his vision, and reached for his gun in his thigh holster. He frantically glanced outside to find three DC Metro police cars surrounding them, red and blue lights flashing. There was also an armored van full of SWAT officers, and they were quickly moving to form a perimeter. Before he'd even digested what he was seeing, their SUV was hit a third time by another cop car backing into it from the front. They were effectively trapped. Clint watched, wide-eyed, as the SWAT team unloaded what looked like some sort of battering ram from the van. They'd obviously come prepared to deal with an armored car. "These aren't cops," he said.

"DC Metro dispatch shows no units in this area," the computer added.

"No shit!" Fury snarled. He groaned loudly, and Clint scrambled forward. The Director's arm was badly broken, so much so that there was blood on the outside of his leather jacket. His face was cut above his good eye and his nose was oozing. The SUV began to shudder as it was peppered with gunfire. The bullets smacked uselessly against the sides and windows, splaying out like puddles as the reinforced glass absorbed their impacts. The dull, muffled thud of each shot against the car was loud. "Get us out of here!"

The computer calmly responded, "Engines are offline."

"Flight?"

"Offline."

"Communications!"

"Offline. Recommend anesthetic injection." Clint was already on it. He'd slid into the forward passenger seat and had grabbed the emergency kit from the glove box. He took the pre-loaded syringe and unceremoniously stabbed the tip of it into Fury's thigh. The Director couldn't restrain a gasp of pain. "Window integrity down to 82%."

Clint yanked his phone from his pocket and thumbed the emergency connection to the Triskelion. Before he could make the call, however, Fury reached over with his unbroken arm and grasped his hand hard enough to be painful. "Don't," he ordered. His eye was filled with pain and fear. He said nothing more, but it was painfully clear what was going on. SHIELD was compromised. SHIELD couldn't be trusted. Fury shouted to the computer, "Reboot, damn it! Now!"

"Rebooting. Window integrity down to 61%." The display was tracking the bullet hits and measuring how each peeled just a bit more from the integrity of the car's armor. "Recommend deploying counter measures." The entirety of the car violently rocked to the right, spilling Fury into Clint and Clint into the passenger door. Another blow of the battering ram into the driver's window damaged it even more. "Window integrity at 30%. Restoring engine power in twenty-five seconds."

Clint winced at every beat of the automatic rifles outside into the car. "We have to get out of here," he gasped, sweeping his eyes over the cop cars and SWAT Team surrounding them.

Fury tipped his head back. He was in agony, even with the painkiller. "Wait," he managed. That was damn hard to do with the car being battered and maligned by the unending barrage of gunfire and that thing ramming the window. Fury drew a deep breath. "Counter measures are in the central console, but _wait_."

The order left no room for question. The ram hit again and the window moaned and whimpered in protest. The computer was flashing warnings all over the holographic display in red. "Window integrity at 1%."

Clint held his breath, fighting to keep himself still. He realized what Fury intended for him to do. "You stay down," he said, hoping his command, too, left no room to question.

The next collision of the battering ram to the window shattered it in a spray of glass. "Now!" Fury ordered, and the mini-gun exploded up out of the central console. Clint snatched it, waiting only a breath for Fury to completely recline his seat, and immediately laid down a heavy suppressing fire outside the window, rotating the weapon in a wide arc to get as many of the cops and soldiers shooting at them as he could. They all went down, surprised and dismayed. The gun was also equipped with an incendiary device launcher of which Clint made ample and quick use. He fired a rocket into the cop car pinning them on the left, and the resulting explosion was enough to jostle the SUV free from the hood of the vehicle behind them. The next he sent at the SWAT van, reducing it to a ball of flames.

"Power restored," the computer calmly declared.

"Engines at full!" Fury bellowed, and the SUV roared forward, tires spinning at full throttle. The stench of burning rubber and fire filled the car. "Reverse!" The car quickly shifted, and they rocked back, dislodging themselves further. Clint fired another rocket as more cop cars flooded the scene behind them. One of the remaining vehicles rammed them from the other side. Fury cried out as his arm was jostled. Clint lifted his body, grabbing the seat control and simultaneously shoving it as far back and as reclined as it could go. He worked quickly to grab Fury and pull him into the passenger seat. It was awkward and painful, but they managed to switch places. At least Fury was slightly more protected on the other side of the car.

Clint pulled the driver's seat upright and strapped in. "Go!"

The SUV launched forward with a jolt, and they were free. They sped down the street at full speed. "Give Agent Barton control!" Fury ordered the computer. Clint grabbed the steering wheel and drove his foot down hard on the gas. Ahead there was traffic and a lot of it. And behind there was a wail of sirens and a blur of flashing lights. They were being chased.

"Shit," Clint murmured, turning the wheel to the right to skirt around a truck. He darted back to the left lane. "We need to get out of the city!"

The computer was frantically working, calculating the best way to a SHIELD safe house. They were located all over the country, and Clint knew for a fact there was one outside of DC on the Potomac near an abandoned dam. If SHIELD was compromised, it perhaps wasn't a long-term solution, but it was all they had at that point. His mind was racing, twisting with questions about who and what and _why_, but he forced it all down. Their pursuers were keeping pace with them, matching Clint's quick moves in and out of the sea of cars surrounding them. The congestion was thick. It was goddamn rush hour of course.

"There is heavy traffic ahead on Roosevelt Bridge," the computer cautioned. "Turn left."

Clint turned left sharply, and Fury howled in pain, but that avoided the unmoving mass of cars in front of them. It didn't, however, shake their tails. Gunfire slammed again against the exterior of the car, and the computer flashed new warnings about damage and structural instability at which Clint couldn't afford to glance. He swerved sharply to the right, avoiding traffic moving across an intersection as he tore through a red light. The wail of sirens was about the only warning he had before the SUV was hit in the next intersection, police chasers wildly turning into them and nearly ramming them from the road. Clint gritted his teeth, competently maintaining control of the SUV even as the cop car pushed up against the driver's side. One of the officers pointed a gun at him through the hole where the driver's window had been, firing in hopes of hitting him. Clint pressed himself back into his seat. The cop was leaning up now, reaching across the small distance between them to push his gun inside their car and shoot. Clint tried to pull away, but another police car was on the right side, trapping the SUV in between them. The cop snarled, yanking on the trigger of his gun, and Clint ducked. But a breath later the man fell back, a bullet in his head put there by Fury. The Director sat up a bit, Clint's discarded gun in his hand, and was firing through the destroyed driver's window at the cops right beside them. Clint turned into the cop car on his left, the screech of metal loud and shrill. That forced the car into the median, where it trampled flowers before hitting a tree. Another was right there to take its place.

"Do we have communications back? Open a channel to Hill!" Fury demanded.

"Negative," the computer answered. "Turn right at the next intersection."

Clint missed it. He slammed on the brakes. Fury barely had a moment to brace himself on the dashboard. The quick choice paid off when both of their escorts sped on and crashed into the traffic ahead. Clint threw the car in reverse, not caring about the other vehicles honking and screaming past them and barely avoiding hitting them. He looked over his shoulder, weaving through the mess of cars coming at them backwards until he was back on the other side of the intersection. He took the turn quickly, avoiding the slew of vehicles still chasing them. "Turn right again." There were cars stopped ahead. He didn't see a way to avoid plowing into some of them, which he did, pushing as far to the right side corner as possible. He clipped the back of a sedan, spinning it, before tearing across the sidewalk. _Get out of the way!_ he thought desperately, fighting the urge to slow down for the pedestrians scrambling for cover in front of him. He took the turn fast, almost too fast, but the SUV stayed on the road as they sped down this less congested street. He glanced at the map being displayed for him on the HUD, his mind racing through the steps and turns. It didn't matter. At the end of this street there was a blockade of police vehicles. "Shit. Hold on!"

He swung wide and grabbed the parking brake, screeching as he spun the car around. Wheels screeched and the engine groaned with the mistreatment, and he worried for a split second that he'd made a horrendous mistake because the street didn't seem wide enough for this maneuver. But it was. Just barely. Turned completely around, he released the parking brake and barreled back down the street from where they'd come. At the end another few cop cars had gathered. Clint grabbed the mini-gun, pulling it loose from the console. Keeping his left hand on the wheel, he launched the weapon's final missile at the congregation of the vehicles. The explosion was sizeable, the cars going up in a ball of red and yellow, and people screamed to get away. Clint drove the car straight through the flames and smoke, smacking into the mangled carcass of one of the vehicles before speeding away as fast as he could.

"We need to get off the grid," he said to Fury. "Who the hell are these people?"

If Fury knew, he wasn't saying. As they cut across another intersection, the car was struck again on the driver's side. Clint cried out from the impact, his leg nearly crushed as the already compromised door buckled. They were thrown into the oncoming traffic. Clint's heart was painfully thundering as he reacted faster than he thought he could, turning tightly and rapidly to move through the cars and trucks coming at them. He took the first opportunity he could find to get back on the other side of the road.

There was a loud bang, and the car spun wildly out of his control. He knew immediately what had happened. He'd had his tires shot out in more situations than he cared to remember, and that helpless, shocked feeling never got better. He struggled to get a handle on the SUV's erratic path, turning into the spin to try and restore some stability, but another tire exploded beneath them and it was impossible. "Hang on!" he cried. The car struck the median and flipped.

The world seemed to spin forever before they hit the ground. Clint blacked out for a second during the impact, pain rushing up his body and striking right into his brain. He tasted blood in his mouth as the car screeched and screamed and rolled. Glass crunched. The noise and pressure was unbearable.

When he came back to himself, he found the SUV on its side. He was still strapped into the driver's seat, and Fury was sprawled across the passenger door below him, moaning. Clint gasped, reaching a shaking hand to his leg and yanking a sizeable shard of glass from it. The warm rush of blood combined with the pain and dizziness was nauseating, and he swallowed the burn of bile down from the back of his throat. He unstrapped himself and opened the door, which was harder than it should have been given the damage done to it and the fact he had to push it up and not out. "Sir," he called, reaching for Fury's trembling form. Over the settling of the car and the pounding of his pulse, he could hear people screaming. He looked through the windshield. They were still on the road, and they were out in the open. "Sir! Give me your hand! We have to get out of here! We have to go now!"

Fury groaned but pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Clint was already out of the driver's side, his arms shaking as he pulled himself onto the exterior of the car. He immediately felt exposed standing there, spending a precious moment glancing around at the tops of buildings and along the streets. People were crying and running in panic. There was fire, and he could hear the wail of distant sirens. Clint reached back down into the car, grabbing Fury's outstretched hand. He groaned with the effort of pulling the other man up, Fury scrambling against the seats to aid him. After what felt like an eternity of struggling, they succeeded in escaping the overturned car.

Clint helped the SHIELD Director down onto the pavement. But they didn't take one step before the distinctive crack of a sniper rifle echoed down the street. Fury cried out, the shot driving through his chest and slamming into the pavement. Another happened immediately after the first, and Fury went down to the ground with a cry.

Clint was wide-eyed and horrified, throwing himself over Fury's body to guard him. He found himself trembling, trembling in fear for the first time in forever, as he squeezed his eyes shut and held the other man as tightly as he could. He could feel Fury's breath, hot and fast, against his neck. He could feel the warm wetness of blood seeping up into his clothes.

"Barton," Fury whispered. Clint pulled back slightly so that he could see Fury's face. The man was in excruciating pain, his eye dull with the darkness of death, blood painting his lips. He could barely breathe. "Clint… Don't trust anyone."

Clint felt more than heard the thudding of boots striking the pavement beside him. He whirled on instinct, pulling a combat knife from his belt and slicing toward the looming shadow. He struck nothing, and a hand that was cold and made of metal grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off Fury's body. "_On moi_," murmured a voice from behind a black mask. Then he was thrown aside, simply discarded like he meant nothing. He hit the SUV hard, his head snapping into it, and crumpled to the road. He could only stay awake a moment more, but it was long enough to see the sniper level a handgun at Fury's unprotected chest and pull the trigger.

* * *

Nick Fury was dead.

_Dead._

He'd been assassinated in broad daylight on the streets of DC. _Assassinated. Murdered. _He was dead.

Clint was in the morgue, staring at Fury's body. They'd been brought to the hospital. There was nothing anyone could have done. Fury had been shot three times, twice at range with a gun powerful enough to cause massive internal damage, and once point blank. He'd died on the street just as the EMTs had gotten to him. Clint had regained consciousness when the ambulances had arrived, and he'd crawled back to Fury's lifeless body despite the men surrounding him and the concussion torturing him. He had pulled the other man into his arms, shocked into a stupor, trembling and lost. His mind had simply been unable to believe it, unable to accept it, even with Fury bleeding into his hands and his form limp and his eyes closed. No breath. No pulse. _He was dead._

Even now, he couldn't quite believe it. Even now, as he stood there unable to tear his eyes from Fury's lax face, he couldn't _believe _that Fury, the one who had taught them and guided them and led them all, was gone. Fury had always seemed so aloft, so damn invincible. Untouchable. Clint gritted his teeth and looked down. He'd washed the blood off his hands, but damn if he couldn't still see it. _Feel _it.

He heard the door behind him open, and he turned as Natasha stepped inside. Her eyes were wide and empty, as if the shock had jolted everything out of her. When her gaze drifted from Clint to Fury's body, she faltered. He watched it sink into her – _Fury's dead_ – and the pain came, hard and fast. He saw the glimmer of tears, tears that she didn't try to hide, as her feet carried her closer to Fury's body where it lay on a stretcher, mostly covered in a white drape. She also looked lost, as lost and shaken as Clint felt. "What happened?" she asked, even though he was certain she already knew every horrid detail.

"Ambush." He hadn't thought to speak. His voice just came, the ragged word slipping past lips that felt as numb and wrecked as the rest of him. He didn't expect that she would blame him, that _anyone _would blame him, even if he deserved blame which part of him most definitely thought he did. He'd been with Fury. No matter what, no matter how random and unexpected the attack had been, it had been his responsibility to ensure their Director's survival, and he had failed. That was too painful to think about, so that, like so much else in his life, he shoved aside. He focused on what he could do, what he knew. "They looked like DC Metro cops, but they weren't. Too highly trained."

"What about the sniper?" Natasha asked softly.

Clint sighed, thinking about that voice and those steel fingers pressing into his neck. He had bruises that would take days to fade in the soft flesh of his throat. "I didn't get a good look at him. Brown hair. Spoke Russian. He had a metal hand." He closed his eyes and looked away. "He could have killed me." But he hadn't. Clint didn't understand. He didn't know if he should be relieved.

"Ballistics?"

"Three slugs. Aside from the one from the Berreta, they're Soviet made, no rifling. Untraceable. And the one from the handgun is mush. Fucking useless." Despite his rage and spite over the dead end, he noticed the stiffening of Natasha's shoulders. She stepped closer to Fury's body. Now the tears were loose, having pooled in her eyes until they'd finally fallen free. Clint watched her stare at Fury, stare like she could _will _the life back into him. "You know something about it?" he softly asked. The slugs were Soviet made, after all, and Black Widow had once been a Soviet spy, a tool for the KGB. Natasha didn't answer, rubbing her arms through her green coat. Her eyes never left Fury's face. "Natasha?"

Her lips shifted around a breathy word or two. Clint couldn't really hear them, but he knew they were spoken in Russian. Natasha reached forward a shaking hand, slowly and tentatively. It took a few long moments spent deep in miserable silence before she conjured up the courage to lay her palm on Fury's forehead. She sagged when she did so, like some fervent wish had kept her strong and going, like a desperate hope that this was a nightmare and not real had been dashed by the contact of her warm fingers to Fury's cold brow. Shame and guilt twisted Clint's stomach until he was nauseous. When he looked at her now, he saw the young woman he'd brought back from Russia when he should have killed her. He saw the broken woman struggling to come to terms with what she had done to Captain America. He saw the life they'd tried to make for themselves, the straight life filled with good intentions, slipping away. "How did this happen?" she whispered.

He didn't have an answer, at least not one that involved useful facts. He had only his own anger and his own guilt. His own sorrow. He closed his eyes against the sting of tears. No matter who Nick Fury was or what he had become, the man had been a mentor to him, one of a few he'd had in his life. Someone Clint had respected, admired even. And like the other men he'd held in so high regard, Fury was dead. _Dead._ "Jesus, Nat," he whispered, his voice a breathy sob.

She was there for him then, her arms around him and her fingers weaving through his hair and tucking his forehead to her shoulder. Clint choked on another cry, a ragged, awful thing caught in his throat, and closed his eyes. He was never this weak, this open, but right now he felt so low that he couldn't manage his normal equanimity or even a shred of strength. Not with everything for which SHIELD stood lying dead on the table in front of him. Nick Fury was dead. Nick Fury, who'd given him a chance when, considering his checkered past and murderous skillset, he deserved none. Who'd believed in him when he'd brought Natasha in front of him and insisted she could be redeemed, that he could redeem her as he had been redeemed. That man had died in front of him today, and he hadn't done a damn thing to stop it. He couldn't see the path behind them that had led them to this point, but he was damn sure he should have. He should have seen it coming. He should have _done something _to stop this.

She held him, and he held himself together. It was nice to feel her arms around him again. It was nice to have her support him for this moment, just as she had when Loki had taken his mind and body hostage. He'd missed her so much, more than he was willing to admit to her or to himself. She tightened her arms around him, maybe as much for her comfort as it was for his because she was trembling against him. Maybe it wasn't his place anymore, but he sank into her warm embrace, breathing deeply and letting himself relax for the first time in what felt like forever. He drifted, going back to when things were quieter and simpler (as if things had ever been quiet and simple in their dark and dangerous lives). At least then he'd known who he was and what he wanted and what he needed to be. Now Fury was dead, and he didn't know who to trust.

He still trusted her, though. No matter what, he always wanted to.

She wasn't as strong as she was pretending to be. Her hands were tight in the back of his shirt, her chin on his shoulder, her breath shallow against his neck. "What now, Clint?" she asked. Her voice was barely anything, a meager shade of its normal confidence, poise, and strength. "What do we do now?"

Again he didn't have an answer. _Find the bastards that did this. Kill them. Kill all of them._ Vengeance and justice and retribution for destroying their leader and threatening their world. It was pleasant to think it, and it was good in theory, but in reality it was going to be damn difficult, and they both knew it. And it was terrifying. Fury was one of the strongest, most powerful men alive. It would take someone equally powerful, or even more powerful, to assassinate him like this. The fact that such potent, viable evil existed in the world did not bode well for any of them. And they had been struck had and fast and exactly where it hurt the most, where they would bleed away their strength. So Clint didn't know what to say. She'd rarely ever asked him for reassurance like this. Maybe never. He didn't know what to tell her to make this right.

His phone beeped in his pocket. In the heavy silence, it was cripplingly loud. Clint pulled away from Natasha, fishing the device free and thumbing it on. He read the message on the screen, and wariness wormed its way into his heart. "They want us back at the Triskelion. They're calling a meeting in operations control."

Natasha didn't look up. Her watery eyes were still fixated on Fury's still, lifeless face. Clint watched her for a second, struggling himself to pull the ragged ends of his composure back together. Eventually she reached for the sheet on Fury's body and tugged it gently up and over his face and head. She raised her chin after that, almost defiantly, squaring her shoulders and finding a deep breath to ground herself. Then she turned and looked at Clint. "Are you okay?"

His head hurt. His leg hurt. His heart was a dead weight in his chest. "Fine." He appraised her, the pallor of her cheeks and the agony in her eyes. "You?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Then let's go."

* * *

The minute they stepped into operations control within the Triskelion, Clint knew a horrible situation was about to get infinitely worse. Operations control was a large room, teeming with monitors and workstations. Long rows of consoles fanned back from the front, dozens and dozens of stations filled with techs and agents. At the front was a massive, state of the art display that was directly interfaced into one of the most powerful computer systems in the world, one that was capable of tracking, processing, and analyzing exabytes of data in real-time. SHIELD had installations all over the globe and the largest military aircraft ever created in the helicarrier, but this one room was the heart and soul of its day to day functioning. Everything that was anything came through this place.

Right now it was teeming with agents. Clint had never seen the room so full. There was a low hum of chatter, a rumble of questions and worries and whispered words of grief and shock. The air was somber and tense. All of SHIELD was reeling, crumbling. This had been an attack against them all. And they had questions, questions to which they wanted answers. Clint could feel their eyes on him, doubtful and suspicious. He stood straighter, his arms folded across his chest, ignoring the murmurs. Natasha was stiff beside him. She hadn't said a word the entire ride back to the Triskelion from the hospital. Clint couldn't discern what she was thinking. She was rarely readable, rarely open. He wanted to read her now, though. He wanted to know what she felt, that she was with him, that they were together in this. The distance was back between them, cold and immeasurable, miles wide though she was right beside him as she always was. She was gone from him, grieving and thinking and worrying, and he knew why.

He watched with narrowed eyes, trying to keep himself calm and cool, as the doors to the left of operations control opened. Pierce walked inside, flanked by SHIELD guards and the STRIKE Team. Security around the Triskelion had been radically increased in the last few hours, with helicopters and quinjets guarding the perimeter and the bridge essentially locked down. No one was getting in or out of the complex without proper clearance. Still, last he checked, the STRIKE Team wasn't usually relegated to protecting political officers like this. Seeing Brock Rumlow, Jack Rollins, and the others flank Pierce was unsettling. Clint's last experience with them after he and Natasha had returned from killing Brushov had left a hell of a sour taste in Clint's mouth.

Pierce walked to the center of the room. "Quiet down, everyone," he calmly called. The hushed murmur of conversation was slow to stop. "Everyone, listen up. Quiet down." His second command did the trick. The dozens and dozens of agents and techs in the room were still, and all eyes were on the Secretary of Defense. Clint shifted his weight and appraised the older man. Pierce looked grief-stricken. "Never in my worst nightmares did I think I'd ever have to come before you like this." He shook his head, his hands on his hips, and for a moment it seemed like he was battling his emotions. He released a deep breath that was thunderous in the absolute silence. "Nick Fury was a hero. He was a leader. He was a symbol of strength, integrity, and courage to which we all aspire. He was my friend. Now he's dead." Clint resisted a shudder crawling up his back. He glanced to Natasha, but her eyes were empty, hollow, and she was staring at the floor.

Pierce gathered himself and appraised the room. His eyes narrowed. "His loss today will not go unanswered. That I promise you." He paused a moment and started to pace, like what he was about to say was deeply troubling. "I know you want to know what happened, who killed Director Fury and why. We don't know yet. Whatever treachery is going on here, it runs deep. I'm disturbed and disgusted by it. Two days ago, Jasper Sitwell was also found murdered." A quiet murmur of alarm rolled over the group. Clint darted a glance at Natasha to see her reaction and found she was glancing at him as well, a question poised on her lips. "And we lost all contact with Deputy Director Hill shortly after Director Fury's assassination. I'm going to be honest with you. At this point, I don't know what to think. I do know that, whatever is happening, Captain Rogers is involved."

That assertion came without warning and seemingly at random. The roll of whispers and hushed conversation after Pierce's announcement was significantly louder. Clint felt Natasha stiffen beside him. Pierce raised his hands in appeasement and nodded to one of the techs. "We received this recording this morning. It's from a security camera at one of the ports in Algiers two nights ago." A grainy black and white image appeared on the central monitor. It was obviously a video of some sort of shipping yard. It was exceedingly difficult to make out what was happening, but two figures were talking. One was hunched over like he was hurt; it was Sitwell, if the complete lack of hair was any indication. Rogers was recognizable enough with this uniform, the silver star prominently featured across his chest and the "A" upon his helmet goddamn beacons that blared "Captain America". The conversation between the two men couldn't be heard, but it was growing more heated. Then Sitwell threw himself at Rogers. There was a flash, a gun going off though if either of them was shot it wasn't obvious, and a brief struggle. Then Rogers had Sitwell on his knees and was looming over him, _threatening_. It was like watching some grotesque movie, but it flashed off before the ending. "This is the last image we have of Agent Sitwell alive."

The silence in the room was unimaginable. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Nobody _breathed._ "Sir," a voice called out from one of the computer consoles. It was a young woman, a junior agent, who was white-faced and horrified like the very foundation of everything she held immutable and true in this world of lies and espionage was cracking and crumbling. It was. What they'd been shown didn't make sense. Captain America was the best good guy there ever was, a _hero _in the strictest sense who'd sacrificed himself not once but twice for the sake of their world. "You can't be suggesting that Captain Rogers would…" She couldn't even finish.

Pierce looked at her apologetically. It was harshly clear he did mean to suggest it, even if he wasn't brave enough to outright say it. "Like I said, at this point, I don't know what to think. Once Sitwell's body is transported back to the States, we may find more answers. Until that time, I have to assume that this altercation led to his death and Captain Rogers' disappearance. Agent Romanoff, you were the last person to see Rogers before he left. Did he tell you anything?"

Every pair of eyes in the room turned to Natasha. How could Pierce know Natasha was the last person to see Steve? It made sense, but he said it with such certainty. Natasha was far too professional and too talented at lying and acting to let her dismay show. Clint only knew of it because he was close enough to feel the muscles of her lithe body tense. She was quick to manufacture an answer. "Just that he was leaving on an assignment for Director Fury," she evenly replied. She emphasized that last part, speaking slowly and very clearly. Clint knew why. She was trying to link Rogers' name with Fury's, to show he was _trusted_ by Fury, that Steve was working for their fallen leader.

Pierce wasn't satisfied. "Nothing else?"

"No, sir. Director Fury ordered him to keep the details secret."

Pierce sighed, even unhappier. He looked back at the agents assembled. "What I'm about to say may be difficult to accept, but for his own protection and ours, we need to bring Captain Rogers into custody." This time Natasha wasn't so careful about her reaction, dropping her gaze and folding her arms across her chest as though to keep herself from shaking. "I don't believe in coincidences, not when two high-level SHIELD officers are killed within forty-eight hours of each other. Captain Rogers is the only connection we have between the murders right now. At the very least he has information concerning the death of Agent Sitwell, but he may also know something about who killed Director Fury. We need to know what he knows."

The video was frozen on its last image, where Rogers was standing over Sitwell's terrified form. Steve's SHIELD photo was displayed on the left, along with information concerning his last known whereabouts. He'd reported in SHIELD Headquarters in New York around noon four days ago. After that, the trail went cold. Two days ago he'd had this run in with Sitwell, if the time and date stamp on the video was accurate. If he'd gone on the run after that, he had enough of a head start on them to be anywhere in the world. Rogers wasn't a spy, but he was smart and he was fast. If he'd killed Sitwell, whatever the reason, he wouldn't be stupid enough to come back to DC.

Pierce went on. "This is your only mission. Whatever op you might have been running, bury it. This is priority one. Captain Rogers must be brought in as soon as possible. If someone is attacking SHIELD, I want to know who and why. I want our people, our resources, and our ideals protected. I want this all over the world. _Everyone _works this. Understood?" The shock in the room was palpable, so much so that no one responded. "Wherever Rogers is, whoever he's working with, we need to find him. I want him apprehended unharmed. No mistakes. No matter how bad this looks, we don't have all the facts. I'm going to say it again: bring him in _unharmed_. Understood?" This second time, people nodded stiffly, like they couldn't quite believe what they were agreeing to do. This was Captain America, not some terrorist or madman or threat. This was _Captain America_.

But even as Clint thought that, Fury's last words to him echoed through his head. _Don't trust anyone._ Why the hell hadn't Fury reinstated Rogers after he'd recovered from his injuries? Rogers certainly had a hell of a reason to hold a grudge, SHIELD's treatment of Natasha notwithstanding. And SHIELD had no shortage of enemies. Was it possible Steve's bitterness and resentment had driven him to the other side? _It's not possible. He's Captain America. Captain Goddamn America. _But it certainly looked like Rogers was about ready to destroySitwell from that video. Clint couldn't believe he was _actually _thinking this. He didn't trust Pierce, that was for damn sure, but it wasn't like Fury had been honest with him. It wasn't like Fury had _ever_ been honest with him. And now it seemed like Fury's affinity for compartmentalization had gotten him killed. And if Rogers was innocent (_God, when the hell did this turn into if?_), compartmentalization had just gotten him labeled as a fugitive.

"I swear to all of you: if there is a traitor in SHIELD that got Nick Fury and Agent Sitwell killed, I am going to find him, no matter who he is. And I am going to make him very, _very _sorry." Pierce's words hung over the group like a pall. He was still, _letting _it all sink in, and then he walked to the security doors on the left and headed back out into the corridor beyond.

When Pierce was gone, the room fell apart anew in whispers. Rumlow was stepping up. Rumlow. Clint's gut clenched. _What the hell is this? _"Eyes here. We've got people combing the shipping yards in Algiers for clues as to what might have happened. They're going to give us answers. In the meantime, we lock down DC. Runways are monitored at BWI, IAD, and Reagan. I want eyes and ears on everything. Scan all open sources, phones, laptops, PDAs, _whatever_, and route it through here. If Rogers tries to get back in–" And now Rumlow's sharp eyes went right to Natasha. The other agents might not have noticed it, but she certainly did. And Clint did. "–we catch him before he even thinks about running. Send word out to New York and LA to do the same. Pull deep undercovers and get them on Rogers' trail. I want hourly reports from every SHIELD station around the globe. I want Rogers tracked down. We make a clean arrest. Clear?" There was a series of nods and affirmations. "Get it done. Now."

That was enough to break the stasis within the room. Agents jumped into motion, quickly coordinating with each other to get this manhunt underway. Techs scrambled at their keyboards. Clint watched the barely ordered chaos for a moment before he felt Natasha step away from him. He turned and reached for her arm. "Where are you going?"

"To find Steve," she responded softly but firmly.

"Are you crazy?" he hissed. Her eyes flashed in anger, but he wasn't going to be dissuaded. "Whatever's going on, you have to stay here. You know better. Even if he had nothing to do with this–"

"Even if?" Natasha analyzed his face for a long moment, staring at his eyes, reading him. And then the anger and _disgust_ in her glare cut right through him like a knife to his heart. "You think he killed Sitwell? What the hell was Sitwell doing out there?"

"Don't," he warned. "Don't. You don't know anything more than I do."

"I know Steve. This is a setup," she hissed. "He's in trouble." That much was damn obvious. They were all in trouble. Clint didn't know what else to think. Her anger, raw and aggravated by her grief over losing Fury, boiled to the surface, and the icy stare she gave him was brutal and damning. She was staring at him like she didn't know him. Maybe she didn't. And he didn't know her. Not anymore. "If you think he would ever murder someone like that, then you've really lost your way."

"I don't," Clint responded, unable to keep the spite from his voice. "I don't. But we can't fly off the handle half-cocked! Fury told me not to trust anyone. _Anyone._"

"Including me?" she hissed. Every connection he'd had with her was ripping into tattered ends and broken threads. She yanked her arm away and stalked up the stairs to the rear of the room. She was through the doors there, never once looking back at him. Clint couldn't do a damn thing but watch and wonder what the hell they were supposed to do now. This was coming up from inside SHIELD, whatever it was, and Natasha bolting off to find her lover in blaze of grief and guns was certifiably _stupid_. If Rogers was innocent, if he'd had nothing to do with Sitwell's murder or Fury's assassination, then he still had _something _Pierce wanted. And she was a fool to think they wouldn't use her to get it from him.

Clint wanted to run after her, to knock some goddamn sense into her head, but he didn't. She'd hurt him with her accusation. She'd hurt him, and she was walking away. Walking from SHIELD, from the life they'd led together as partners and friends. The cracks that had been forming in SHIELD were becoming as wide as fissures and faults now, and she was choosing a side and she didn't care if he came with her. No matter what he did or thought, she was throwing her lot in with Rogers. She was throwing SHIELD away, she was throwing _him_ away_,_ to be with Rogers.

Goddamn but that hurt.

"Barton." He turned at the call to find Rumlow standing behind him. The STRIKE commander was eyeing him in concern. It was the most amiable he'd seen the man be. "Pierce wants to see you." That request took Clint aback for a second, his brain fumbling to understand. Rumlow misread his momentary floundering for grief. His hard expression softened. "Sorry about what happened with Fury today. Fucking messed up, what happened to him. I know you did everything you could." Clint said nothing. Rumlow tipped his head a little like he wanted to say more. He did say more. "And sorry about what I said to you a couple months back." He seemed ashamed, well and truly, for the heated and cruel argument they'd had when the STRIKE Team had been sent to arrest Natasha and Clint had stood in her defense. "That whole situation just got to me, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Sorry."

Clint finally recovered enough of his faculties to nod. "What does Pierce want?"

Rumlow nudged his shoulder gently to get him walking, and they were striding across operations control toward the security doors. "You're the last one to see Fury alive and the only one who saw the shooter. And you're the best sniper we have." Clint's phone buzzed once in his pocket. He prayed Rumlow didn't notice, and it seemed like he hadn't. Rumlow just held open the door for him and waited for him to walk through it. When he did, Rumlow sighed slowly, wearily, and led him down the corridor deeper into the Triskelion. "Pierce needs your help."

* * *

_On moi._ – He's mine.


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Thanks so much for all the comments and support! And special thanks to LenaAzarova for help with the Russian translations! Enjoy this chapter!

**TERMINAL FROST**

**6**

Escaping the Triskelion wasn't easy. It was one of the most secure buildings in the world, and in the wake of Fury's death, its already admirable defenses were heightened. Still, Natasha wasn't daunted. She was exceedingly proficient at eluding capture, a skill that aided her in countless missions for the KGB and Brushov and countless more for SHIELD. She made herself be patient. As much as her argument with Clint had upset her, she knew he was right. Pierce would be foolish not to follow her in the hopes that she would somehow lead them to Steve. That could happen if she wasn't smart and capable (which she was) and if she actually knew where Steve was (which she didn't). Thinking about that only unnerved her, so she ignored it. She ignored how worried she was, how upset she was with Clint, how _lost _she was without Fury. How afraid she was that Steve was hurt or dead. How disturbed she was that SHIELD was rapidly turning into something else, something she didn't recognize, in front of her very eyes. She ignored it all of that and focused on getting away.

After the meeting, the vast majority of SHIELD was predictably and frantically going about their manhunt. There was an air of tension, fear, and mourning, and that was a convenient distraction if there ever was one. Still, she wandered for a bit, acting as though she had tasks, objectives, in the event anyone was watching her or following her. It wasn't entirely wasted time. Her mind was racing, both with what happened and with a plan to escape, and she was listening. Everywhere people were whispering about Fury, about Sitwell, about Clint and Steve and her. As rattled as she was by it all, she kept an ear on it as she walked the corridors of the Triskelion. She was searching for clues, for some answers to the mess of swirling questions around her. No one had any. It was all rumor and conjecture, and she knew she shouldn't put faith in any of it without some confirmation. Frustrated, she put more direction into getting the hell out of there while she still could.

There was a kid in R&D, a guy who apparently had the hots for her (at least if gossip was to be believed, and it probably was). He'd worked a mission with her right after the Battle of New York (well, he was in the background, at any rate), and ever since then he'd been infatuated. She'd been keeping this in her back pocket for months, waiting for the opportune moment. There'd never be a better one. Natasha went to the massive levels that comprised the heart of SHIELD's development sector where the marvelous gadgets and technological wonders that made high-level espionage possible were designed, built, and tested. Once she spotted the young tech, she honed in like a bird of prey and worked it like there was no tomorrow, laying it on thick with a coy smile and a sweet laugh and the right sway of her hips. The kid was wide-eyed and drooling and ready to eat out of her palm, though he seemed bashfully worried about flirting with Captain America's girl, as he put it, though not worried enough to not do it. He was also (moderately) concerned about defying the SHIELD-wide orders to secure the Triskelion. Natasha had only giggled and grinned dismissively and leaned in front of his computer terminal in a way that she knew put her cleavage on display. She'd sweet-talked her way into the equipment room in no time at all. After that, it was a simple matter of turning into someone else. Literally. She'd used the photostatic mask before on a few missions; it was an incredibly lightweight holographic mesh that perfectly conformed to one's face and projected a highly detailed image of another's likeness. It had its limits; in particular, it worked the best if the fake face was similar in size and proportions to the real face, and it didn't alter the voice (though they had voice modulators for that purpose). A true, undetectable disguise required perfecting by a specialist tweaking the holographic interface, but she only needed enough to get through the door. It also couldn't defeat a retinal scanner, but that was handled with a kiss on the guy's cheek and a hand rubbing his shoulder. The tech hacked into the Triskelion's computer systems and had them turn a blind eye when she passed through the lobby and down into the garage.

Now she was speeding down the highway, her eyes on the rearview mirror about as much as they were ahead of her on the street. She was fairly certain she wasn't being followed, but she was frazzled enough to concede that she might be. SHIELD agents were the best in the world, and if Pierce or Rumlow had put a tail on her, it would be difficult to shake. She felt lonely and exposed and wondered again if Clint wasn't right, if it wouldn't be a better thing to stay put and lay low. But she realized instantly that wasn't an option, not when Steve might need her. Staying there and waiting uselessly was not what Steve would've done had their roles been reversed. She considered circling the city for a while just to throw them off her scent if they were back there, but she decided against it. It was already getting close to sunset, and she wanted the cover of darkness to get out of DC.

For a moment she questioned her sanity in heading back to Steve's apartment. If SHIELD was going to look anywhere for him, it would certainly be there. However, she needed supplies. Clothes and guns. She didn't have a place of her own, as tied to SHIELD as she was, so this was the only choice. And it wasn't just that. Maybe it was crazy, but she prayed he'd be there. He'd be foolish – fundamentally goddamn _stupid _– to be there, but maybe… She hadn't been back to his place since he'd left. The silence without his voice, his things all around her, the smell of him on his clothes and blanket… It had been too much. Worry and fear, at least fear like this, for another person were novel things to her, raw and unfamiliar, and she feared they could overpower her if she let them. She had been missing him in a way she'd never missed anyone before. And when the ghost of presence haunted her, she had fled to the barracks at the Triskelion.

He wasn't going to be there. He _wouldn't_ be there. But she couldn't help the pull of hope, and anxiety filled her stomach with flutters as she pulled her Corvette behind his building. She killed the motor and sat there for a few torturous minutes, watching and listening. The sun was low, sinking toward the horizon, washing the world with the timid beginnings of evening. Her careful eyes devoured the street, analyzing every pedestrian and car for potential threats. It was quiet. Peaceful. Normal. There was no sign of anything. Emboldened by that, she slipped out of her car and quickly walked into the brownstone. _Get in. Get out. Hurry._

She was a shadow, fleet and purposeful, as she silently but quickly climbed the steps. She fished in the pocket of her leather jacket for her key and slid it into the lock of Steve's door. But she heard something then that made her heart stop. Music. It was soft, barely audible at all, but as she stood there, her ear tilted toward the door, she recognized it. Steve's record player was on, and Kitty Kallen was crooning "It's Been a Long, Long Time" again. Natasha's heart pounded as she leaned back, and she swept disturbed eyes behind her. There was nobody. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling she was being watched, paranoia twisting deep in her gut. Briefly she considered abandoning this and getting out of there, but as she listened to the faint melody, she realized it was a sign. A sign meant for her. Still, she reached into her waistband behind her jacket and pulled her gun. Holding it at the ready, she twisted the knob of the door. She opened it only wide enough to slip inside before closing it silently behind her. The apartment looked just as she'd left it four days ago. In the long afternoon shadows, everything was dark, still, and lonely. He wasn't there. No one was there. The song finished with a swell of horns, and it was eerily silent for a moment. Then it repeated.

Natasha narrowed her eyes and held her gun in front of her as she crept further inside. Her shoes were silent on the hardwood floors as she slunk down the hallway, keeping to the shadows as much as possible with her back against the wall. She checked inside the den and found nothing. The kitchen was empty. The spare bedroom and bathroom were as well. And his bedroom was as she'd left it. She'd dressed his bed for him before leaving, and she glanced at it with sudden longing and fear shooting through her heart before she checked around the room's closets and inside the master bath. Nothing. She didn't know whether or not to be disappointed or relieved. That worry for him grew sharp again, and disappointment won out.

Natasha lowered her gun and walked back to the living area. She stepped to his stereo and shut it down with a press of a button. _Somebody_ must have been here to turn it on. It could have been days ago, but somehow she knew it hadn't been. And she somehow knew it was Steve. He'd been back. Why else would the song to which they'd danced be playing softly for her? He had been there. Recently.

Excitement and relief rushed over her in a warm wave that almost stole her strength. Perhaps it was unwise and premature to think herself safe, but she did, putting her gun back into the holster on her lower back under her jacket. Her mind was racing as she looked around again. If he'd come back and put that song on for her, there was something here he'd left for her. There had to be. _There had to be._ Frantically she searched, her breath quick and her heart pounding as she gave everything a cursory glance. There was no other sign that he'd come back. She returned to his room and checked his dresser and closet, figuring he might have come for clothes, but everything was neatly folded and hung and she didn't know his wardrobe well enough to determine if anything was missing. She did the same in the kitchen, searching for signs that he'd eaten or taken food, but there weren't any. Growing frustrated, she went back to the living room.

And then her eyes caught the stack of papers on the coffee table. They'd been there before she'd left earlier that week, but they hadn't been open like this. They were the SSR files he'd been reading on Bucky Barnes and the Howling Commandos, and they were spread around just so, as though to make it appear like someone had been working with them. Natasha came closer, leafing through them suspiciously. Then her eyes caught a pamphlet that had been left on the top of the pile. It was for the new Smithsonian exhibit on Captain America, the one about which the curator had called Steve days ago. She picked it up, reading the glossy words. _Captain America: The Living Legend and Symbol of Courage. May 26th – August 31st at the National Air and Space Museum. _And suddenly, like a grand epiphany, she knew where he was.

She moved fast. She raced back to his bedroom, finding a duffle bag on the floor of the closet that she stuffed with a change of clothes for him and for her. In the back of the closet she'd stashed a few small handguns, which she grabbed. One she strapped to her ankle under her pants. The others she placed in the bag. She shouldered the duffel and covered her tracks as best she could to make it seem as though someone hadn't hastily packed and fled. Then she was back out the door.

"Hi."

Natasha's heart leapt into her throat as she closed Steve's apartment. She was quick to regain herself, turning after locking the door. "Hi," she responded.

Steve's neighbor (Kate, she thought) was standing there with a basket of laundry. She was dressed in a warm-up suit, her honeyed hair pulled into a messy pony tail. "Natasha, right?" she said. "I don't think we've ever formally met. I'm Kate." She held out her hand and offered Natasha a warm smile.

Natasha swallowed down her frustration. There was no time for this. Still, she stuffed her key back in her jacket pocket and put on a friendly, soft smile as she shook the other girl's hand. "Nice to finally meet you," she said.

"Likewise," Kate replied. She eyed the duffel bag on Natasha's shoulder a bit warily. "This is really awkward and probably not any of my business, but you're not leaving, are you? That kinda looks like a moving-out bag, and I haven't seen Steve recently."

"Oh, this? Oh, no. No, I'm not leaving."

Kate smiled fondly. "That's good. Steve's a really nice guy, and he was pretty lonely before you started dating him. I just don't want to see him get his heart broken. He deserves to have someone in his life who's good to him. He needs it."

Natasha didn't quite know what to make of this. Of all the times to bump into this girl, why now? And the whole conversation seemed a bit contrived. Still, as good as she was at reading other people, she couldn't see anything other than sincerity in Kate's eyes. She really seemed like a friendly person concerned for her neighbor. But, then again, if she was so concerned about Steve being unhappy, why hadn't she started dating him? Steve had been living here for months, and as far as Natasha knew, Kate had been, as well. She'd had plenty of opportunity. Still, _then again_, what did she know? Maybe this girl had tried asking Steve out and he'd turned her down. Or maybe she was too shy. Or maybe–

This _really_ wasn't the time to be jealous over nothing. Sometimes her emotions got the better of her now where they never used to. It was weakness, and it was because of love. She damn well knew it, so she buried it and smiled her best, sweet smile. "He's fine."

"Has he been doing okay at work? I mean, I just assume you work with him." Kate gave her a disarming smile. "Getting hurt like that… It's a big deal, you know? I worry about him."

"You don't need to. He's fine," Natasha said again, careful to keep the heat and annoyance from her tone. "He's already out on assignment."

Kate still seemed like she picked up on Natasha's curtness. She smiled feebly. "Is he going to be home soon?"

Natasha softened her face and voice even further. Being confrontational would get her no closer to escaping this. "I hope so," she said. Then, for good measure, she added, "I miss him."

Kate smiled at that. They were silent for a moment, trapped in the awkwardness, until the other girl's grin turned uncomfortable and a tad forced. "Well, I need to get downstairs before someone takes my clothes out of the dryer. Have a good evening."

"You, too." Kate was gone down the steps with her laundry. Natasha forced herself to be still even though every inch of her body was crawling with the need to go, waiting until Kate was out of sight and she could no longer hear her footsteps in the stairwell. Then she was quickly on her way herself, praying with every second that she wasn't wrong about where Steve was hiding.

* * *

It was strange (okay, damn near uncomfortable) to be walking around the Captain America exhibit. Natasha hadn't known what to expect, but the sheer size and breadth of it was striking and a little overwhelming. It was newly opened, just in its first week of being available to the public, and it was Friday afternoon so it was crowded with kids and adults alike. As she descended the escalator in the National Air and Space Museum, she was greeted by a humongous banner of Steve in all of his glory as Captain America. Seeing it took her aback for a second. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that he'd had this whole other life before meeting her, that he was a war hero who'd led a nation to victory against the Nazis and defeated HYDRA and the Red Skull. It was hard to remember that this was behind the man she loved, all of this legacyand symbolism_._ And it was even harder still to picture him as a sick, scrawny kid from Depression-era Brooklyn who'd never wanted anything more than to do what was right. Seeing the pictures of him before the serum was shocking when she'd only ever known him as a tall, perfectly sculpted mass of strength, muscle, and confidence. She wasn't there to look around, at least not at the exhibits, but she couldn't help but stare a moment at a display of him transforming from an asthmatic stick of a boy into the towering warrior for peace and justice. It was remarkable. And her eyes lingered on those pictures of him from before the serum. His eyes were the same then as they were now, and that made her feel warmer and surer of herself.

But she didn't spend more than that moment. Forcing her heart to slow in its frantic flutter against her ribs, she walked around, pretending to be paying close attention to the exhibits, the memorabilia that someone had confiscated from Steve's apartment in Brooklyn, the war artefacts, guns and memos and uniforms and Steve's old motorcycle. Really she was paying attention to _everything _else, to everyone around her, searching for any sign of Steve's familiar, large frame in the crowd. He wouldn't come here dressed in his uniform of course, but she figured he'd still be fairly easy to spot given his build and complete inability to be inconspicuous, especially to her. She watched as much for SHIELD agents blending in with the crowds; they, too, should be entirely obvious to her trained eye. If they were there, they were more talented with subterfuge than the usual lot. Natasha wandered a bit longer, passing a huge set-up featuring mannequins wearing Steve's old uniform and shield and the get-ups of the Howling Commandos. There was a large crowd in front of this display, tourists taking pictures, boys on their dads' shoulders and pointing in awe. Natasha scanned through the group with quick eyes, fighting to stay calm and patient. Her composure, already so shredded by the day's horrors, was failing her, and she released a long, shaky sigh that was too noticeable and turned away. Behind there was a section devoted to James Barnes. A large, glass display featured the clearest, most detailed picture of him she'd ever seen. She read the text alongside it, his biography, his friendship with Steve and his life that was too early ended. And then her eyes returned to his. There was something familiar about them that she couldn't place, and as she took the moment to look at him, really look, an unsettling feeling of _recognition_ assailed her. She'd seen pictures of Barnes before, of course, but most had been of him smiling, bright and brotherly. There was something about _this _one with that squinted expression and hard look of determination that made her believe she _knew_ this man.

That wasn't possible. And it was too much, this feeling that was borne of the fear and paranoia gnawing at her composure, so she turned away and resumed scanning the crowd. Her feet carried her back closer to the display of the Commandos with the huge painting behind it of each of the men. She looked. She listened. She waited and hoped. Steve had to be here. She hadn't imagined the clue he'd left, had she? And this made good sense. Arresting him here, surrounded by so many people and in the goddamn Captain America exhibit of all places… Nobody in SHIELD was that bold. The public relations fall-out would be widespread to say the least. So he _had_ to be here. _Please, let him be here…_

And then he was. He was right beside her, and she'd never felt him coming until his familiar hand grasped hers and his strong, warm fingers wove through her own. She nearly jumped, but she held down the reaction at the last second, rolling her eyes at herself a little in disgust over her own weakness as she sagged ever so slightly against him in consuming relief. She couldn't be obvious about it. Not here. He'd certainly learned a thing or two from her over the last few months about being sneaky. Still, he seemed equally stricken by relief for a second. "Thank God," he murmured. "Thank God you're here." She chanced looking at him. He was a little pale, and there were hints of fading bruises and cuts littering his face. A few streaks of dirt lined his neck and crawled up into his ear, like he'd washed quickly and hadn't had the time (or energy) to get everything clean. He was unshaven, and his hair was unkempt under a dark blue baseball cap. He was dressed in a black hooded sweatshirt with a gray t-shirt underneath it. The jeans he wore were a little too big in the waist, and his brown construction boots were splattered with dried mud.

But Steve looked okay. _Steve was okay. _And he was there with her. She almost cried. "Let's get out of here," he said. He didn't wait for her response or let go of her, pulling her alongside him as they walked purposefully but not too quickly through the exhibit. Touching only his hand was painful; she wanted more, wanted so desperately to kiss him and hold him and _make sure_ he was okay. She wanted the comfort of his embrace so badly she could hardly think of anything else. They wove their way through the crowd, Natasha maintaining presence of mind enough to keep a sharp eye on their surroundings, until they were away from the heavy throng of people at the exhibit.

Then she couldn't restrain herself anymore. She pulled him to a quiet corner alongside the escalators and palmed the sides of his face. "Are you hurt?" she whispered. She didn't wait for him to answer, pulling his face to hers to kiss him frantically.

Steve held her tight; she could tell he was shaken, worried. Frightened. His lips brushed over her cheek. "No, I'm alright," he breathed against her. For a long minute, clinging to each other was all they could manage. It was all she wanted. She wanted to stay there, safe in his embrace, feeling him breathe and listening to his heart, because everything around them and ahead of them was difficult, dark, and dangerous.

But the minute didn't last. "Nat," Steve said, pulling away to look into her eyes. He was teeming with stress. "Nat, I have to get to Fury. I don't know what's happening, but what he sent me to do… Sitwell was there and he's–"

"Fury's dead." The words slipped from her mouth, soft and seemingly innocuous. She closed her eyes against the sting of tears and lowered her face, nuzzling into his chest. The wetness seeped down her cheek and into his shirt. "He's dead."

Steve stiffened in her arms, pulling back to stare down at her again. His eyes were wide with alarm. She could practically feel the thundering of his pulse under her fingers. She could practically feel the strength seep from his body. "What?" he whispered. "When?"

"A few hours ago. If you didn't know that, how did you know SHIELD is looking for you?"

Steve swallowed thickly. "I didn't. I just guessed. Somebody inside SHIELD sent Sitwell to–" A laughing couple brushed by them, too close for comfort, and Steve immediately hushed his words. He looked around quickly, glancing over her shoulder. "We shouldn't talk here. We have to go."

They walked away, side by side, doing their best not to look like they were upset or harried. Once they exited the escalators that took them back to the higher level, they picked up their pace slightly. The museum wasn't as crowded up here. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly, slinging his arm around her shoulder to pull her closer.

She smiled, putting on the act. Faking it was always something she could do. "Not really," she admitted, belying the façade. "Everything's falling apart. Pierce thinks you murdered Sitwell."

_"What?"_

"And that you know something about who killed Fury." Steve was rigid beside her. She could feel the tension holding his form painfully taut. Her words riled him enough for him to look over his shoulder nervously to see if his reactions had been noticed. "Don't. I think we're alright, but this is SHIELD. We're going to have to move fast to get out from under them."

Steve seemed lost and angry for a moment. His eyes were dark and troubled. "I didn't kill Sitwell," he muttered irately. His voice was low but firm. "I didn't. You don't think–"

"Of course not," she hissed, a little hurt that he could even consider it. "What happened?"

Steve shook his head. They were out the main doors and into the late afternoon sunlight. She got a better look at him now and saw that he was exhausted and limping slightly. That and the disquiet shining in his eyes only heightened her worry. They turned and headed down the street to the parking garage. "When we were in Crimea, Rumlow left the safe house to deliver something to Algerian pirates. Whatever it was, Fury was hunting it down; that's why he kept sending you out." They crossed the street rapidly. Steve was walking faster and faster, like he hadn't been aware of how bad the situation had become. He probably hadn't been. "He wanted me to take down the pirates and steal whatever data I found. Sitwell was there. I think he was trying to pay the pirates, get the data back. I don't know who sent him. He claimed Fury did. If Fury did, he set me up. And if he didn't… Either way I couldn't trust SHIELD."

"What data?"

Steve stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking over his shoulder again. He was riled, incredibly so. "I don't know what it is. Sitwell said it was an algorithm, but he wouldn't say what it did."

Natasha released a slow breath, grabbing Steve's arm gently and slowing him as they reached the garage. The deep echo of rumbling car engines and tires rolling on concrete seemed incredibly loud, thrumming against them as they wavered in the enormity of what was happening. "Who killed Sitwell?"

"I don't know," he said quickly and quietly. "A sniper. He…" Steve faltered. For him to be this rattled about an opponent meant nothing good. "Nat, this guy and I were evenly matched. I barely got away from him. He was fast. Strong. He had some sort of metal arm with the Russian star on it. Another Soviet super soldier?"

Cold fear washed over Natasha. "He shot Fury, too," she whispered. Before she could overcome her shock and say anything further, Steve was bounding up the steps in the cement stairwell of the garage, taking them two at a time. The loud sound of people talking ahead killed their hushed conversation. Steve lowered his eyes and slowed his climb as a large crowd of teenagers pushed by them, laughing loudly and talking about the restaurant to which they were heading and the clubs they would visit after.

Natasha caught up. This wasn't the floor on which she was parked. The garage was nearly filled to capacity and she'd had to go higher. "Stay here," Steve said, and he was jogging out into the rows of idle cars. She considered following him but instead did as he said, keeping a sharp eye out on the street below them through the window in the stairwell and on the garage around them. She saw him stop at a blue pickup truck down the center row some distance. He opened the passenger door and reached inside, pulling a large satchel from it that he slung over his shoulder. He closed the truck and walked back with huge strides. She realized belatedly that what he was carrying was his shield, safe and hidden inside the black nylon of the pack. He was back in front of her with half a weak grin. "Had to borrow someone's truck in New Jersey. Hopefully they'll find it here. Left a note."

She couldn't help herself. It was damn _stupid_ what he'd done, and so _him_, and the sight of him standing there with that little, weak smile curling his lips and his eyes so open to her was too much after so many days spent worried and burdened with grief and fear and want. She kissed him deeply again, curling her hands into his sweatshirt and pulling him closer. This was less relieved and more passionate, more desperate. He smelled like he hadn't had a shower in days, stale sweat and dirt and places far from here, but she didn't care, drawing him deeper and spending just this one moment relishing in his nearness. God, she was weak and pathetic and this sort of dependency was going to get them both in trouble, but she couldn't help herself.

Steve's hands were large and strong on her back, keeping her tight to him. With a seemingly great effort, he pulled his mouth from hers. Feverishly he kissed her forehead. "It'll be alright," he soothed. "We'll figure this out."

Natasha couldn't let him go. It was probably a good thing she didn't, at least for that moment, as a car drove by and slowed beside them. Steve's back was to it so he didn't see the prying eyes staring at them. A window rolled down. She wasted no time, throwing herself back at Steve and ravenously smothering his mouth with her own. He grunted in surprise. "You guys leaving?" the man inside the car asked. "Where you parked?" She didn't answer, kissing Steve harder – practically making out with him in broad daylight in the middle of a busy parking garage – and sliding her hands around into the rear pockets of his jeans. A disgusted huff came from the car. "Get a goddamn room."

The minute the car raced away, Natasha pulled away from Steve, snatching his hand and dragging him back to the stairwell. "Nothing gets rid of people like PDA," she murmured, as much to herself as to him like she was justifying it. Steve said nothing, drawing a deep breath and cocking his head, maybe even a tad embarrassed. They ran up another two flights. Once they reached the top floor of the garage, they were out in the open with the setting sun bright on them. They walked briskly, her leading him, down the rows of cars towards her Corvette. "What happened to the data?" she quietly asked as they reached her car.

"I have it," he softly replied. He drew his hand out of his pocket and produced a SHIELD USB drive. He held it in his palm, close to his chest, protectively.

She looked at it and then at him. She suddenly felt more exposed, more vulnerable. "No wonder why Pierce wants you," she surmised. "He wants this."

Steve shook his head. He was grim, his mouth tight with a frown. "How the hell could he know I have it?" She didn't have an answer. "The only way he could is if he sent the sniper." That was a hell of an accusation, one for which there was little evidence. But if it was true, that meant the corruption in SHIELD went all the way to the top. And Pierce had ordered Fury killed. Or it was Fury who'd been corrupt and, as Steve had said, this whole thing had been a set up and Pierce was trying to salvage a bad situation. Fury had dispatched Steve, the world's best soldier and SHIELD's strongest weapon, to steal something he had no business taking. Rumlow and Sitwell striking deals with pirates was suspect but not necessarily damning; SHIELD often bartered with criminals when it was necessary to defeat a greater evil. And this wouldn't be the first time Fury had manipulated them, _used _them, to his own ends. _No,_ she thought as confidently as she could. _Fury would never do that. He couldn't be a traitor._

At the moment, it didn't matter. Whatever was happening, whoever was betraying them, they were in serious trouble. Steve had obviously come to the same troubling conclusion. "We need to figure out what's on this," he declared as he closed his fingers around the drive and returned it to the pocket of his jeans.

Natasha unlocked her car and went over to the driver's side. "SHIELD drives like that are equipped with homing programs, level 6 or higher. The minute we boot up, they'll know where we are."

Steve didn't look happy. "Then we have to take it some place–"

"Steve?"

Steve whirled. "Kate?" Sure enough, Kate stood behind them, dressed in jeans and a purple t-shirt. She had a messenger bag with her. Natasha's eyes immediately narrowed in anger and suspicion. Steve wasn't nearly so doubtful, but he was surprised as all hell. "What are you doing here?"

Kate was flustered, stammering uselessly for a second as she looked between Steve and Natasha. "I, uh, I just – I was worried, okay? I followed you," she admitted, darting her eyes warily at Natasha. Natasha was furious and embarrassed at once. How the hell could she have been followed by a civilian? Kate shook her head, blushing, as she returned her sheepish gaze to Steve. "You just got hurt so badly, and I didn't want to see that happen again. Whatever's happening to you, I can help. I'm a nurse." She said that so stupidly, like the both of them weren't well aware. Natasha's suspicions redoubled, and she opened her mouth to tell her off.

But Steve was already speaking. He walked back to the trunk of the car and took both of her shoulders in his hands. "You don't want to be involved with this. Trust me. Go home. Go right now."

She was white with concern and fear and just a bit of excitement. Is that what this was to her? A chance to do something wild and adventurous? _What the hell?_ However, before she could even begin to question, a silver glint in the building to their left drew Natasha's attention. "Get down!"

Her warning came just in time. Steve yanked Kate down to the ground with him a mere instant before the rear window of Natasha's car exploded. The young woman screamed. Natasha fell to the cement, scrambling to the rear of her Corvette and finding her gun. She glanced at the building from where the shot had come, but there was no sign of the sniper. It didn't matter. She didn't need to see him to know he was there.

A van suddenly screeched around the center rows of cars, roaring toward them in reverse. It stopped down the row, the rear doors flying open, and men in black combat gear charged out bearing automatic rifles. _Shit._ "Get in the car!" Steve shouted to her. Natasha didn't hesitate, didn't question, scrambling back to the driver's door. She turned, her wide eyes darting to Steve as he pulled his shield out of his pack and in front of him in one smooth motion and pushed Kate behind him. There was another loud, booming crack, and Steve was nearly knocked from his feet as a round from a high-powered sniper rifle collided with his shield. The bullet smashed on impact, driving Steve into the trunk of the Corvette, but he got his balance. "Go!"

Kate was terrified, shaking wildly as she kept herself low while trying to get into the backseat of Natasha's car. Natasha jabbed the keys into the ignition and turned the car on, throwing it in reverse. "Down!" she yelled at Kate. "Steve!"

Bullets peppered the car, but Steve was there, trying to absorb most of the shots with his shield. The loud _clang clang_ of the bullets striking metal was deafening. There was that glint of silver again, and the assassin jumped down from an adjacent building. He landed on the top of a Hummer, crushing down the roof, before leaping to the garage. He stalked closer, handing the sniper rifle to one of the men and taking an RPG launcher. _"Rogers!"_ Natasha cried in terror.

Kate bravely lurched forward from the backseat and pushed the passenger door open wider. Steve pivoted, moving from the rear of the car as Natasha gunned it and slipping into the passenger seat. "Go," he ordered. Natasha didn't need to be told. She slammed her foot down on the accelerator and turned sharply, backing out of the spot. Then she shifted into drive and floored it. It was not a moment too soon as the car beside where they had been parked exploded, struck by a rocket. Kate screamed, but Natasha wasted not a second in dismay, speeding down the aisle of the garage and heading toward the ramp down. This wasn't ideal for a high speed pursuit; there wasn't much room to maneuver, and if their route became blocked, there would be no other way to escape. But she had no choice.

Tires shrieked, echoing through the interior of the garage, as Natasha raced down the levels. The racket of gunfire followed them, and she glanced in the rearview mirror to see the van chasing them. Men were leaning out of the windows, the muzzles of their rifles winking, as they fired at them. A bullet found its way through the car and smashed into the windshield, a web of cracks fanning out from the impact. Another drove into Steve's headrest, just barely missing him, and he jerked forward in terror. Natasha's eyes went wide, and she looked away from their path for a split second. "Look out!" Steve cried, and Natasha slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel sharply to avoid hitting a family coming back from the museum. The Corvette swerved uncontrollably, crashing into a parked SUV before she managed to get in under control. Kate was flung forward by the impact with a cry, but Steve twisted around and reached a hand into the back seat and caught her. "You okay?" he asked breathlessly.

There was no time for her response. "Hang on!" Natasha cried, taking the next turn down to the bottom level too sharply. The Corvette howled as it tried to stay on the pavement, fishtailing for a horrifying moment before Natasha regained control. Then she floored it, screaming towards the wonderful show of daylight ahead. She gritted her teeth as the car struck a speed bump at the exit of the garage far fast, jolting them all again. She didn't slow at all, smashing through the wooden barrier at the booth and tearing out into the street.

"Where?" she gasped, turning to the left.

"Get on the freeway," Steve answered. He twisted in his seat to look behind him at Kate who was tucked between the front seat and floor. "Are you okay?" he asked again. Natasha heard her frightened gasping. "Kate? I need to know if you're okay."

"I'm okay," came a timid answer. "Who are these people? What's happening?"

"Just stay down and do everything we say," Steve replied tightly. He turned to Natasha. "Is there anyone we can trust at SHIELD? Hill?"

"I don't know," Natasha answered. She glanced in the rearview mirror as she drove quickly down the street toward the Southwest Freeway. "They're gone." It was more than slightly disconcerting that the van with the gunmen had seemingly vanished.

"What?" Steve asked, turning around to look himself. "We couldn't have lost them."

Natasha didn't know what to say. Thankfully the traffic lights cooperated and the police were nowhere to be found as they sped down the street. A minute or two later there was still no sign of their pursuers. She knew better than to think that they'd abandoned the chase. She glanced at worriedly Steve as she drove up the onramp to the freeway. "Which way?" she asked.

"We need to get out of DC," he answered. He was a tad breathless, but a quick glance over his body revealed he wasn't hurt. His shield was tucked between his knees, and his eyes were roving among her, what he could see of the rearview mirror, and the road ahead. "Get some place safe and figure out what we're dealing with. New York, maybe."

"Stark?"

"Where's Barton?"

_Clint._ "He's still back at the Triskelion. We have to get him out if–"

She couldn't finish what she wanted to say. The car was rammed from the rear. Kate yelped, slamming into Natasha's seat. Steve's arm shot across Natasha's chest, bracing her so she didn't hit her head on the steering wheel. His other was pushing against the dashboard hard enough to dent it. Something thudded against the top of her car, something large and heavy. The driver's window was suddenly smashed in by a metal fist. Natasha yelped, glass spraying inside and cutting, as silver fingers reached for her. Steve pulled the parking brake, and the car came to a sudden and screeching halt. It lasted only a second before they were rammed again, but it was enough to fling the assassin off the roof and ahead of them onto the freeway.

Those metal fingers dug into the cement, slowing the sniper's flight down the road. Once he stopped, he straightened slowly. And Natasha's heart sunk into the pit of her stomach. Icy fear raked over her, and she nearly shuddered. Everything she'd been fearing since Clint had described Fury's shooter rushed against her control, banging and bashing and nearly shattering it. It was him. _The Winter Soldier._

There was no time to think more, though. The van was driving into the back of the Corvette, lifting the rear of the car off the road and pushing it forward even with the parking brake on and Natasha's foot hard on the brakes. They were helpless. It was like being shoved slowly toward their doom, and the Winter Soldier was waiting menacingly. He had a Kalashnikov aimed at them.

Steve moved faster than he pulled the trigger, though. A blur of red, blue, and silver flashed in front of Natasha's eyes, and his shield was up in front of them, blocking the spray of bullets. "Step on it!" Steve cried over the clamor. Natasha did, yanking the steering wheel to the right and switching to the gas. Steve snapped down the parking brake, and the car twisted, spilling them all roughly to the left as they turned sharply. That jostled them loose of the van. Steve used the momentum of the spin to knock all of his weight into the car door, completely breaking it free. The car hit the median, smashing and crumpling its front end. Steve was out in a blink, reaching a hand inside and ripping the passenger seat out completely. "Come on!" He gestured to Kate, and she took his hand and scrambled free. Natasha was out of the car as well, pulling her gun. She emptied a clip at their assailant as he stalked closer, but most of the shots struck the metal arm.

The Winter Soldier raised his rifle. "Nat, take her and go," Steve said. "Go now!"

To hell with that. She wasn't going to leave Steve to face this alone. Steve was pushing Kate behind him, moving back toward the cement barriers that marked the median of the divided freeway. Natasha levered herself over them to the other side of the road, where cars were rapidly drawing to a halt. People were getting out and running chaotically. "Natasha!" Steve cried. He looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes wide in horror. "Get out of here!"

An RPG was launched from the van. Steve threw Kate away from him, shoving her over the median for protection as the rocket hit his shield. He gave a hoarse cry when it exploded and catapulted him back across the road. He hit the other side of the overpass before tumbling down to the street below. Natasha's heart leapt into her throat. She heard screaming and cars crashing. _No!_

"Oh, my God," Kate whispered, crouching beside Natasha. Natasha came back to herself, shoving down her panic and worry and ducking below the median. Another RPG reduced her car to a ball of fire. The blast of heat made her wince and shut her eyes tight for a second, the road shaking with the detonation. She pressed close to Kate, shaking as they took cover behind the thick, protective concrete of the median and waited for the inferno behind them to dissipate. The stench of burning oil and rubber was thick in the evening air, choking them, and Natasha shared a tense, warning look with the young woman beside her. It was hard to wait. It was hard not to _run_, to get down there and make sure Steve was okay, but she made herself stay still because she had a chance to strike and she was going to take it.

A gun went off. Again and again. Bodies fell. Natasha bit her tongue until she tasted blood. Were they shooting civilians? Her stomach twisted. _"__Voz'mite yego zhivym."_ That voice… She remembered it so well. A shiver raked its way up her back. Ruthless. Evil. The Winter Soldier was shooting the men who'd shot Steve. They wanted him alive. Footsteps thudded closer, and she could hear the sound of a rifle being reloaded. _"Ubeyte zhenshchin.__"_

The second the Winter Soldier hopped over the median, she was on him. She launched from a crouch, pushing herself off the median and jumping onto his back. She pulled the wire from the hidden place on her left wrist and got him about the neck with it. The men in the van stopped shooting at them, probably concerned with hitting the Soldier. That was just as well for Natasha, who was doing her absolute damnedest to garrote the man underneath her. She tightened her thighs to hold on as he bucked wildly, struggling to dislodge her. She knew she had the tender flesh of his throat under the wire, but he also had his arm up and tangled in it now and was pushing it away. She remembered this well, this incredible strength and speed and ruthlessness. She fighting with everything she had, but it wasn't enough. The Winter Soldier reached back and fisted her hair. He yanked her forward over his head and threw her into the ground. The impact jostled the wind from her lungs. The heavy weight of his boot pushed her down into the pavement, harsh and crushing. His eyes were hidden behind a mask, goggles that were ruby and a black faceplate. _"__Chernaya vdova. Vstanesh na moyem puti, i ya ub'yu tebya."_ The warning was a low murmur from behind the mask, but it was spoken with complete confidence.

She didn't care. She managed to get her hand down her leg finally and pull her pistol. She shot, aiming for his forehead, but he jerked just in time and the bullet clipped his goggles instead. She wasted no time, grabbing his foot and giving it a vicious twist. Her strength and skill might have lamed a normal man, but it only succeeded in knocking him down. That was enough, though, for her to get on her feet. She snatched the Uzi strapped to the Winter Soldier's back as he rolled to his knees and unloaded it mercilessly at the men in the Hummer. A few fell with cries, their guns still shooting into the road and surrounding cars and sky as they did, and more people screamed. Natasha tossed the spent Uzi and reached for Kate. "Run!"

They ran across the westbound lanes of the freeway, Natasha snatching Kate's wrist tightly and dragging her through the maze of stopped cars. Kate was panting and shaking behind her, eyes wide. "Natasha–"

_"Go!"_

They were nearly at the other side of the road when she heard the sound of an RPG launcher being loaded. She pulled Kate faster and harder as she scrambled across the hood of a crashed car. "Jump!"

Kate screamed in terror. "What, are you crazy?"

Natasha didn't listen and didn't give her a choice. She leapt off the car and over the side of the overpass, looping an arm around Kate and taking her with her, just as another RPG plowed into the mess of traffic where they had been. The sky melted with a roar of fire and heat, but Natasha was prepared, and as they tumbled she fired the other trick up her sleeve. The grappling hook shot up faster than they fell and hit the bottom of the overpass, latching firmly to the concrete and anchoring into it. The cord in her hands and around her waist went taut, and they swung safely under the bridge.

Her shoes hit the ground, Kate beside her. The young woman had a look in her eyes, a look Natasha couldn't quite read, but there was no time to think about it. She watched down the street from under the bridge, where a bus had flipped on its side and a few cars had crashed around the wreck. The sedan mashed to the left of the bus abruptly detonated. Another rocket whizzed through the air, impacting the underside of the bus by its rear, and that section went up in flames. Two more rockets hit the other cars surrounding the bus. People were fleeing, but with the wall of fire and wreckage, there wasn't anywhere to go. If Steve was alive, they were trying to trap him.

She didn't think. The road was clear the other way, and she could run. But she couldn't just leave Steve behind, not even if he'd asked her to. If he was hurt… She turned blazing eyes to Kate. "Stay here. Find cover." Kate didn't move. Natasha couldn't waste time with that, turning and running as fast as she could to the bus. The first shot she'd expected, and it struck the pavement by her right foot. She sidestepped and forced more speed and power from her body. She'd outrun snipers before and a moving target was much harder to hit. She was Black Widow. She was nothing if not a moving target.

But not to the Winter Soldier.

The minute she heard the crack of the rifle, she _knew_ she was going to be shot. She knew it before the bullet struck. Still, she wasn't ready, and when it punched through the meat of her left thigh, she cried out. Pain jolted up and down her leg like lightning, and she fell hard. She didn't quite get her hands out in time to brace her fall, and her head smacked against the road.

For what felt to be forever, Natasha was dazed, lost in fiery pain and consuming dizziness. She came out of that stupor by sheer will and determination, blinking and blinking the tears from her eyes and trying to focus. She clutched her bleeding leg and managed to turn around, her eyes wide with horror. She saw the Winter Soldier hop down from the bridge, down the dozens of feet, and land on the street. He had a handgun trained on her, tossing the rocket launcher he'd been using, and he was stalking closer and closer. There was _nothing_ in his eyes. Natasha scrambled away, horror leaving her shaking. She tried to get her legs beneath her, but the pain and vertigo were bad and she couldn't do it quickly enough. The Soldier was looming over her in a matter of seconds, the gun pointed at her and he was going to pull the trigger.

He'd taken off his shattered goggles and was staring at her. Those eyes. _His eyes._

And then Steve came out of _nowhere_. His shield flew through the air, spinning and shining in the afternoon sunlight, and struck the Soldier in the chest. Their adversary didn't move fast enough to block it, so it knocked him back. Steve was there a second later, driving the Winter Soldier further away with a furious roundhouse kick. His shield flew back to his arm as though it was tethered. Natasha crawled along the asphalt, struggling to calm her pounding heart at that close brush with death as she watched the two of them fight. It was a blur of blue and yellow and black and brown. They were fast, powerful. Natasha had watched Steve battle the Red Guardian, but this… This was different, less about brute strength and more about skill and speed. Steve shoved the Winter Soldier back and stepped to Natasha. He spared a moment for her, his eyes wide with worry. Her leg was bleeding profusely, so much so that everything was getting hazy and dim. But she still saw the streak of silver shooting toward Steve. "Steve!"

He turned and caught the Winter Soldier's metal fist on his shield with a loud, rattling clang. Steve dug his boots into the road and drove him away with every bit of his strength. He stood still, chest heaving and covered in soot and dirt, staring furiously at the other man. He was threatening, more so than Natasha had seen before, and obstinate. "Get the hell away from her!" he ordered.

The Winter Soldier stared at Steve. He stopped his attack, eyes wide with shock that was obvious even though the rest of his face was hidden. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.

Steve guarded Natasha, holding his shield defensively. He shook his head, his eyes narrowed, not relaxing even the slightest. "You're not hurting her. _Get away_," he hissed lowly.

The soldier did. He was… He was terrified.

But the tense, unsettling moment ended as quickly as it had come. The bus behind them exploded again, struck by another RPG. Natasha yelped, trying to cover herself from the fire, but Steve was there, crouching over her with his shield to protect them both. The inferno raged for a second or two, and when they looked again, the Winter Soldier was gone and the street was silent.

Steve seemed lost, staring through the smoke wafting and blowing about them. In the distance sirens were blaring. Natasha scrambled to push herself up, and the sound of her clothes scraping across the asphalt drew Steve's attention. He was at her side in a breath. "Are you okay?" he asked breathlessly. His eyes were filled with panic as they traced down her wounded body before settling on the gushing hole in her leg. He quickly stripped off his sweatshirt and wrapped it around the wound before pulling tight, putting heavy pressure on the injury.

Natasha cried out. Her voice was a strangled, hoarse whisper as Steve continued to try and stop the bleeding. His filthy face was shining in sweat, and his eyes were desperate. "We have to get out of here," Natasha whispered. "Now. Steve–"

He looped an arm under her knees and another about her shoulders. "Hold on to me," he commanded, and she did, managing to get her arm around his neck. He lifted her like she weighed nothing and was running, sprinting through the wreckage lining the street and heading back to the overpass. "I've got you, Nat." He was scared. Scared for her. "Just hold on. Hold on."

She tried. There was smoke and heat. Voices. Steve. Another softer, more feminine tone. Kate. They were running, panting, fleeing for their lives. They were talking about her. Steve's big, warm hands and Kate's smaller, colder ones touched her. Natasha knew she was slipping into shock. The world was becoming more and more distant, garbled, like a nightmare. She blinked blearily, breathing as deeply as she could, and when she only saw gray shadows, she buried her face into Steve's warm, strong chest and let her eyes close. She knew he wouldn't drop her, even though the world was shaking and falling apart all around them. He was there, and he would take care of her. Carry her. Protect her.

_Hold on. _She knew that even if she couldn't, he would never let her go.

* * *

_Voz'mite yego zhivym. – _Take him alive.  
_Ubeyte zhenshchin. – _Kill the women.  
_Chernaya vdova. Vstanesh na moyem puti, i ya ub'yu tebya. – _Black Widow. Get in my way and I will kill you.


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Puion asked how many chapters this will be. I'm not entirely sure, but I'm guessing 15-20 (probably closer to 20 - I think this story will end up being longer than "Red Rain"). I plan things out, but quite often my plans change as I go.

Alright, my lovely readers. The plot thickens…

**TERMINAL FROST**

**7**

Natasha was drifting on the edges of consciousness where dreams and memories blurred with reality. It was difficult to tell which was which and what was what. She was too confused and lost in pain to try. The world was moving. Vibrating. Rolling forward. She was laying on something soft but firm, and she was cramped into a space that was too small for her. Her head was in someone's lap.

"Where did Captain America learn how to steal a car?" A quiet question. The voice wasn't very familiar. It was soft and higher-pitched. A woman. _Kate,_ her brain sluggishly offered.

"Nazi Germany." _Steve._ His tone was worried and ragged. "Is she okay?"

"The bleeding's better, but we should really take her to a hospital."

"It's too dangerous. They'll be looking for us there."

Cool fingers pressed gently against her throat. "How much longer–"

_"Until they arrive?" _Brushov was impatient. It wasn't easy to see, given how tightly he always commanded his features, but she noticed. She stood loosely at his side, obediently waiting, but his tension was driving her heart faster and faster. One of Brushov's lieutenants looked mortified and then terrified when he realized he was upsetting his commander. His face was white and his eyes were wide as he floundered for some sort of answer, scrambling for the window of the warehouse to look down on the street below. As the young man struggled to manufacture an explanation for the delay, Brushov was stiff and scowling. Every second the boy spent embarrassing himself was one closer Brushov was coming to ending him. She needed nothing more from her handler than a minor shift of his body, the hardening of his eyes or the clench of his jaw. A subtle sign would unleash her wrath.

The boy was lucky, for another of Brushov's men came into the warehouse just before she reached for her gun. _"They're here,"_ he announced. A moment later two men entered. One she recognized well. Garanin. The other was an older gentleman with a long face adorned by a goatee and bright white streaking his black hair by his temples. She had never met him before, but she knew who he was. Aleksander Lukin. Lukin and Brushov did not get along well, so this mission was surely extremely important for them to garner some sort of truce. A fight against a common enemy.

The men made their introductions, pleasantries that were anything but pleasant. She didn't listen to the conversation. It did not include her, so it was not her place. Instead she stared into the shadows behind Lukin. As she stood beside her handler, another assassin stood beside Lukin. She couldn't see his face, but his build was tall and muscular. His left arm was metal and adorned with the Russian star at its shoulder. That gave her pause. She knew the stories. The dark figure exuded something that suggested he was cold and ruthless. Colder and more ruthless than she was, perhaps. _The Winter Soldier._ Brushov had wanted him for the Red Room, had wanted her to learn from him, but Lukin was apparently as protective of his assets as Brushov was of his own. This was the first time she'd ever seen him.

"Try to keep her awake."

"Natasha? Open your eyes."

"She's got a concussion. It's not a bad one, but she's out of it."

She felt arms encircle her, warm, strong arms that she knew so well. Stevewas carrying her again, cradling her against her chest as he walked with fast, long strides. She tried to focus on the hazy veil of gray and indistinct shapes around her. It was night now, the last light of day washing the world in long, heavy shadows, and those blurry squares and triangles were houses. She groaned in pain. "Where are we?" she managed.

"We're getting you help," Steve said. Her ear was against his chest, and his voice was a low, comforting rumble to her that nearly lulled her back to sleep. "Stay with me, Nat. I've got you."

But she didn't stay. She went down into the chaotic splashes of memory again. The Winter Soldier was waiting for her. She was simultaneously excited and alarmed, but neither emotion was strong enough to be anything more than a fleeting sensation. Before she left Volgograd, Brushov's hardened voice reached out to her from across his office. He was still displeased. Worried, even, if he had the capacity to be such a thing. And angered. _"Be wary of the Winter Soldier, Natalia. He's dangerous, more so than even you. He is a weapon that should not be left in the hands of our enemies. He is a machine that can only bring about the terminal frost of an eternal winter. If the moment presents itself, kill him."_

"I've got you, love. Just hang on. You'll be alright." Steve sounded more and more rattled, his voice hoarse with pain and fear.

"Are you sure we're safe here?"

_I'm not sure of anything anymore. _ "No, but she needs help. We need to risk it."

Steve's arm shifted as he traded more of her weight to one side. Then he was knocking on a door. She squinted, turning to look more carefully at where they were. "Is he home?" Kate's soft question was louder than the cacophony of crickets and her own straining heart and Steve's quick, shallow breaths.

The door opened. "Hey, man," came a surprised, uncertain voice.

Steve sagged in relief. "Sam. I'm really sorry about this. We didn't have anywhere else to go. Can we come in? Please."

The moment that followed was long, even with her pain and disorientation stretching time unnaturally. She kept blinking, trying to focus on the man who stood in front of them. He was dark-skinned, handsome, with a goatee framing his mouth and open, friendly brown eyes that were filled with equal parts shock and worry. Eventually the man nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Come on. Get in here."

She balled her fist in the thin fabric of Steve's t-shirt as he stepped inside Sam's house. "Where should I–"

"Here. Follow me. What the hell happened?"

"SHIELD's after us."

"Shit. She okay?"

Kate's voice answered. "She will be if I can get a handle on the bleeding."

"You a doctor or something? Sam Wilson, by the way."

"Kate, and I'm a nurse. Do you have a first aid kit? Get it, please, and water."

"Right. There's a guest room there, Steve."

She drifted again as the _thud thud _of Steve's boots on hardwood floors softened as though he was walking on carpet now, and then the dizzying sensation of being moved away from his chest assailed her. She tried to hang on – _don't let me go of me!_ – but her fingers wouldn't work right. He sensed her distress, leaning over her. Finally she focused on his face. The room was filled with dim light, white and eerie against the shadows, and it made him seem pale and not quite real. He was covered in soot and bruises, but his eyes were strong. "Can you look at me?" His fingers cupped her face tenderly, and his lips struggled for a weak attempt at a smile. She tried to do as he asked, but it was so hard. "Damn it. What the hell were you thinking? I told you to get out of there. I told you to run."

"Not going to leave you," she managed. Her lips hardly formed the slurred words. "I'm your partner."

"You're my life," he corrected. His hands were tangled in hers, their fingers woven together over her chest. "I can't lose you."

It wasn't just what he was saying. It was the way he was saying it, raw and open and sincere. She could see how terrified he was, shaken down to his core. She wanted to do something – _anything_ – to make that better, but she couldn't. She told him once that he couldn't protect her, couldn't save her or change who she was. But she knew (she'd known for a long time now) that he had. She was terrified, too, by what he felt for her and what she felt for him. How strong the love between them truly was. The dependence. And how it could drive them both into making poor decisions. Bad choices that would compromise them. _Weakness. _She couldn't face that now. Her mind was so shattered, disjointed, so she anchored herself on something simple. She smiled weakly. "You still can't give me orders. That was part of our agreement, 'member?"

He choked on half a laugh and kissed her roughly, frantically. "Well, I'm giving you one now. You stay with me. And you _never _do that again."

Her hold on consciousness was failing her. "Aye-aye, Cap."

"Nat, come on. Stay with me."

She couldn't. When she came back, she was in a different time and a different place. She was clenching a gun in either hand, her back pressed to the smooth, icy blocks of the outer wall of the Kremlin. The night was thick and deep, and with the heavy cloud cover above, there was neither moonlight nor starlight. That was fortunate. It was also fortunate the snow was coming down heavily but had only recently started, so her tracks would not be overly noticeable. Still, they would need to move quickly.

She glanced up to the guard tower where she knew the Winter Soldier was waiting. She had no evidence of it, but she knew the men who had been stationed there were dead. The Winter Soldier had made short work of them, fast and expertly. Now he was up there, watching her from the shadows, from great height, from all of the advantage. She didn't care for the exposure, but the Soldier was a sharpshooter above all else. It was her task to flush the Minister of Defense and his cronies from the Kremlin. And it was his to shoot them all.

"I'm so sorry about this, Sam."

"Man, stop. You need my help. _Captain America_ needs my help. I'm gonna do whatever I can."

"You got out for a good reason. I can't drag you back in. Once Natasha's okay, we'll be out of here. I swear to you."

"The hell you will. What does SHIELD want with you?"

_Don't._ There was pressure on her leg, intense, brutal pressure, but she was too strong to do anything more than groan. She squeezed the fingers clenched in her own, Steve's fingers, and he squeezed back. And he was smarter and more intuitive than she gave him credit for sometimes. "I don't know."

Apparently Sam was smarter than she realized as well. "It's alright. Don't tell me. I trust you know what's best. I'm a soldier, not a spy."

Steve grunted a rueful laugh. "You're not the only one."

"Hold her still, Steve. She's lucky; the bullet passed through without hitting anything major, but I still need to stitch this." Kate's voice was steady, sure, more so than Natasha would have expected given the trauma they'd endured. "It's not going to be pretty. I'm sorry I don't have much for the pain."

"I'll get Ibuprofen," Sam said. "Probably some tequila wouldn't hurt, either."

"Vodka," Natasha groaned. "I'm Russian."

Another ghost of a laugh. "Right. Vodka."

"Easy, Nat. Hang on to me." The pain got worse, so much so. Steve was trying to anchor her, holding her against his chest even as she squirmed and gritted her teeth and worked through the agony as Kate worked on her wounded thigh. He didn't shush her, didn't placate her with silly nonsense or trite promises that everything would be okay, said nothing at all to demean her or comfort her. She'd been injured worse than this many times before. She could handle it.

When the agony was too much, she went back down into the haze in her head. The crackle of gunfire. Men screaming, panicking, running around pathetically like proverbial chickens with their heads cut off. Easy targets. She moved faster, faster than them, faster than anyone, slipping among the shadows like she was born to. Her guns rang, bullets slamming into limbs, striking life from bodies. She danced in the snow, twirling like a ballerina, fleet and powerful as she brought down her marks. There were too many, and some were more skilled than the average sort of military men. That was when the Winter Soldier's gun cracked in the distance, and bodies fell around her with splatters of red that melted the newly fallen snow the moment they landed. He fired fast from his vantage, deadly accurate even though she was moving through the crowd she'd flushed from inside the Kremlin. He never hit her. He picked off those stupid enough to engage her, one after another after another. Efficiently. Flawlessly.

The Minister of Defense was a portly man who expected life's gratuities to be easily gained and life's inconveniences to be easily avoided. He was screaming at his men, at his aides and his fellow ministers who were involved in this ill-fated attempt of a coup, trying to direct this battle like he had the power and the experience to win. He didn't. The Winter Soldier was murdering his co-conspirators and protectors from afar. Black Widow was doing the same right in front of him with powerful kicks and driving fists and lithe acrobatics. In a matter of seconds, the fight was over, and the Minister of Defense was left alone, wide-eyed, sweating, and horrified as she stood before him.

A thud resounded to her left. The Winter Soldier gracefully landed beside her, having jumped down dozens of feet from the guard tower to the courtyard. He was a wraith, black and silver, sliding among the shadows. He didn't look at her, his face hidden behind his mask, his breath a jet of vapor before his face. He stalked across the small distance to the panicking minister. The pudgy fool was trying to explain, to beg for his life, to back away. The Winter Soldier had no compassion. No sympathy. Nothing aside from his mission. She watched as he pulled a gun from his belt. The minister was sobbing now, terrified beyond measure. The Winter Soldier held the muzzle to the rolls of the man's brow. He said nothing as he pulled the trigger, and their target fell, dead.

The Winter Soldier lowered his gun and walked away. She followed him. The snow was red with blood. She tasted it in her mouth. She bit her tongue hard, during the fight with before or while they were working on her leg; she wasn't sure which. The coppery tang was suddenly disgusting, nauseating really, and she swallowed hard.

"Here," came a soft voice. "You lost a lot of blood. Drink." It was Kate, and she was guiding a plastic cup with a straw in it towards her lips. Whatever was in the cup tasted artificially sweet, like Gatorade or some other sports energy drink. "You should really be in a hospital. I know something bad is happening, but… We should at least call the cops."

_No. _When Kate pulled away, Natasha blinked in the darkness to focus on the figure leaning over her. "Where's Steve?"

Kate smiled faintly. "In the bathroom."

"Is he okay?"

"I don't know. I hope so. I think so." Kate smiled gently. "You should sleep."

She shouldn't, but she did. She was supposed to kill the Winter Soldier. That was her mission as much as killing the Minister of Defense, his allies, and his men. So when they were finished at the Kremlin, she followed her target. He was difficult to chase, difficult to track, but she did, racing through the snowy streets of Moscow. He moved quickly to a hotel, a run-down place in a slummier part of the city. She had no illusions; he was most certainly aware she was behind him. He was letting her pursue him, which meant he was prepared to fight her. Perhaps he even wanted to fight her. When she slipped into the hotel room, he was there. Waiting in the chair beside the bed, watching as she slid through the window. There was no light. She could only detect the faintest outline of him, darker shades of black and gray and the silvery glint of his arm. He hadn't spoken during their mission, but he spoke now. His voice was low, its quiet timbre belying its hard edges and threatening words._ "If you fight me, I will kill you."_

She smiled. _"You can try."_

_ Kill the Winter Soldier._ She hadn't. She wished more than anything she had.

Warm arms enfolded her, drawing her back. "How's the pain?" came a murmur against her ear.

It was hard to think, hard to answer. She was exhausted. The adrenaline from her memories fed into her fears, and she stiffened in Steve's embrace. The room was black. The clock on the nightstand was too bright, and she squinted and struggled to focus on the numbers. 1:34 am. "Can't stay here," she breathed, though her mind was not at all in agreement with her body. Her body was limp and lethargic, sinking greedily into the comfort Steve always provided for her. _This is addiction,_ she thought. _This is weakness. This is what it feels like._ "Have to run."

"I know." His lips brushed her temple. "We will. Tomorrow. We're safe for now, and you need to rest."

"SHIELD won't stop," she warned. Her voice sounded garbled and drunken to her ears, and her mouth tasted horrible. However, the pain wasn't so bad anymore, and Steve was hot and strong and curled around her. "You know they'll find us. We can't stay here." _The Winter Soldier will find us._

"Just sleep," he ordered, his breath warm on her neck. He sounded incredibly fatigued, half asleep himself. His arm tightened around her stomach, his face pressed tight to her shoulder. "S'alright."

And fingers found their way through her hair. Harshly and roughly, just shy of pain. It was so dark she could hardly see him, hardly see anything more than the impression of a face and dark eyes. The Winter Soldier's weight was against her, heavy enough to trap her but not so much that she couldn't escape if she wanted. She didn't want to, not even as those eyes filled with pleasure and his mouth claimed hers. This should not have happened, but it was. The fight had been brutal and fast, a dance of blades and power, and it had ended against the wall with his metal fingers around her throat and her knife against his neck. He could have killed her, just squeezed enough to crush her windpipe, but he hadn't. Instead something had changed in his eyes, his eyes that were all she could see of him. Something softer yet hungry. She knew it well; with Alexei so recently taken from her life, she was desperate for the feelings and sensations and passions she'd come to enjoy. She would be punished if she failed in her mission, that much she knew. But it was hardly a concern as he yanked her arms down, disarmed her in one quick motion against which she didn't fight, and pulled her clothes away.

They tumbled to the bed in the dark, mouths locked together and hands desperately touching and senses feasting. It was cold and black but wild and unrestrained. There was no love, no feeling other than pleasure and the desire for a quick but powerful release. She lost herself in a burst of life inside her, fire surging forth from the chains her training had placed on her heart. _She lost herself._

She found herself again. Fingers were still in her hair. Steve's fingers. They were light and gentle, weaving their way from her forehead down to her neck in a slow, languid motion that anchored her. She jerked awake, reeling with the ghost of things she hadn't thought about in years. Memories danced on the edge of her mind, memories loaded with excitement and unbridled power from wanting and then taking. She was trembling. "Bad dream?"

_Nightmare._ It was pouring of out her past again, so much darkness and evil, and she could hardly stand it. She couldn't make her voice work. She looked to the window. Outside there was no snow, only lush leaves and serene moonlight that slipped inside through the curtains. But she thought she could see him. A phantom, hidden as always in the shadows. He stared at her, lingering for just this moment as he traced her body with his eyes. They were somehow bright in the consuming darkness, alive with something she couldn't explain, something impure and twisted and even sad.

Then he was gone, like he'd never been there at all.

"Natasha?" Steve tightened his grip around her. "I've got you. I'm right here. Go back to sleep."

Those eyes. Dark and deep and haunting. She knew them. _She knew him_.

But she couldn't hold onto that thought or anything else as the darkness swooped in around her and took her back again.

* * *

_James Barnes is the Winter Soldier._

Natasha came awake with a gasp. The room around her was bright, filled with the early light of a sunny, new day. She immediately regretted the suddenness of snapping to awareness as pain pulsed in her head and wracked her body. Her leg felt like it was on fire, a throbbing, hateful thing that was unfortunately attached to her. She glanced down herself and saw it was heavily bandaged atop a pillow that had once been white. The lower half of her pants had been cut away, revealing a mess of bruised skin and dried blood. She swallowed thickly, her tongue a stiff, revolting lump in her mouth, and sagged down into the pillow behind her again, a curse slipping from her lips in Russian. She couldn't move, and it wasn't just because she felt like she'd been hit by a truck. Steve was asleep beside her, his one arm thrown across her stomach like a lead weight and his other above her head on the pillows. He was breathing slowly and evenly through parted, dry lips. He'd washed off some of the soot and grime, but his face was flushed. "Steve?" she croaked. She sounded as bad as she felt. "Steve?" He didn't wake up. Natasha groaned, taking his arm gently by the wrist and shifting it off of her. They had to move. They had to go. They weren't safe here. SHIELD would come for them. The Winter Soldier would come for them.

The Winter Soldier. _It's Barnes._

The thought came barreling out of the fog in her head with all the grace and power of a freight train. She winced, her skull resonating miserably with each troubled beat of her heart, and saw him again. Barnes' eyes staring at her yesterday at the Captain America exhibit. The Winter Soldier's eyes, staring at her as he leaned over her for a moment before she'd wrapped her hands in his hair and pulled him on top of her… _His_ eyes, deadened as he loomed with his gun drawn. _No. It can't be._ Natasha was shaking and shaking very badly. She sat up with great effort, swinging her uninjured leg to the floor before gingerly moving the other after it. The pain was excruciating, but she'd been in pain like this before and overcome it. And she had to now. She tried to think, tried to focus through the agony assailing her and the terror robbing her of her breath. _It can't be true. It's not right. It can't be true!_

_Bucky Barnes is the Winter Soldier. He is. He has to be._

_Oh, God. No._

She turned, feeling sick and lightheaded, and rubbed Steve's bicep vigorously. "Steve," she called. Her throat was dry and tight with a lump she couldn't swallow away. She needed to tell him. _You don't have any proof. You don't know for sure._ That was true. There _was _no proof, and her suspicions entirely hinged on a single night of pleasure more than ten years ago that had ended as quickly and abruptly as it had started. Still, as her mind raced through the paltry facts – _he died seventy years ago. He fell from a train and died. It can't be him. It can't be him!_ – she knew that niggling voice insisting that the world's most dangerous assassin was Steve's best friend was telling her the truth. "Steve!"

"Let him sleep."

She was startled, far more startled than she should have been. She turned, the stiff muscles of her back protesting, to find who she assumed to be Sam Wilson standing in the entrance to the bedroom. He tipped his head to Steve's slumbering form. "Think he needs it bad." He had a couple of glasses of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. He offered a nonthreatening smile to her as he handed her the pills and the water. "And you probably need that just as much. I'm Sam Wilson."

Natasha could hardly manage a thought. Nothing felt quite real, like the world was off-kilter from the realization she'd inexorably made. She took the ibuprofen and the water. Sam definitely noticed how her fingers were shaking, but he didn't say anything about it. "Pretty sure bleeding all over your bed qualifies as an introduction," Natasha dryly said, surprising herself because she honestly hadn't thought about saying anything at all.

Sam smiled wider, nodding slightly. "How're you feeling?" He glanced to her lamed leg where it was bent over the edge of the bed. "Stupid question, I bet."

Natasha shook her head. "I'm okay." She downed the pills and drank the entire glass of water.

"Kinda like how Steve's always okay, right." She appraised Sam evenly after that, wondering how he could have so quickly figured Steve out from what had surely only been a meeting or two. She wondered if Sam could figure her out as easily, if he could read past the tense set of her shoulders and the shifting nature of her gaze to see the disquiet bubbling beneath the surface. She didn't feel strong enough or in control enough to disguise how worried and frightened she was, not with Fury dead and Clint trapped at the Triskelion and SHIELD after Steve. Not with the truth about the Winter Soldier seeping like icy water through her thoughts. "Kate's still sleeping, but when she gets up, she should check out your leg again before we leave."

"We?" There was no "we".

Sam's expression softened. "I don't know what's going on. I don't know what you're running from. I don't know much about SHIELD, and I don't know you, but I had posters of Captain America up on my walls as a kid. He's a big deal for the soldiers in this country, you know, and if he needs help? I'm going to do whatever I can to help him."

"You don't know what you're getting into," Natasha warned him. Her voice was harder than she intended. "There won't be a way back out." That was the truth, at least, and she was certain of it. There never was a way back out.

"Fine. All I know is I'm not letting you guys run out of here being hunted." That word cut through to her heart. _Hunted._ Someone else might have argued more, tried to convince this man (who by all accounts was barely more than an acquaintance to Steve and to her a stranger) not to throw his life away like this. They _were_ being hunted, after all, by the Winter Soldier and SHIELD; she still wasn't certain what the link between them was (if there was a link at all), and neither of those forces were forgiving or merciful. Steve would have argued for sure. But she didn't.

Sam smiled thinly. "Just do me a favor and don't treat me like a moron. If you don't want to tell me what's going on, that's fine. I can deal with that. Hell, maybe it's better. If SHIELD catches us, I won't be able to rat you guys out if they torture me. SHIELD does that kind of shit, I assume. Torture people."

She wasn't sure if it was disgust or fear in his voice, but it sounded like some sort of combination of the two masked by a pathetic attempt at levity. She didn't answer, and that was an answer in and of itself. "Right," Sam said, his face falling slightly. "Take the out now, right?" She still didn't answer. "Look, all I know is whatever's chasing you… Well, from what Steve said you can use all the help you can get."

_The Winter Soldier. He's Barnes._

She had to tell Steve. She turned before she even thought to, looking back at Steve who was still asleep. That was odd; two months spent sharing a bed with Steve had taught her he was generally an extremely light sleeper. She needed him awake now, awake to run from this place before they were trapped, awake to _listen_ to what she needed to say. And she was still selfish. She wanted his comfort. It was strong enough to defeat her inhibitions _yet again_, and Sam probably knew already of their relationship (how could he not?), so she swept her hand down Steve's cheek.

He was warm, unnaturally so. Natasha's brow furrowed in concern and she angled herself about to get closer. "Steve," she prodded, concern dashing her thoughts. She laid her hand on his forehead, brushing his hair away. He definitely had a fever and a fairly high one. He didn't – couldn't – get sick, at least not in ordinary circumstances, which meant he was hurt, and hurt significantly enough that it had compromised his immune system and the serum's defenses. And she had slept beside him all night, grounded in his warmth, and hadn't noticed. Worry burst through her, worry upon which Sam immediately picked up. "Steve, wake up."

Harsher shaking got Steve moving, and he rolled onto his back with a rough groan and an arm thrown over his eyes. "What?" He scrubbed his hand down his face, making no effort to hide his wince. "What time is it?"

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded, unable to keep the sharp edge from her tone.

"What's wrong with me? Huh? Nat, are you–"

"_Don't_, Rogers. Don't you dare. What's wrong?" She grabbed his wrist and dragged it away from his face, trying to get a better look at him. Steve grunted, blinking rapidly to clear the fog of sleep, and rubbed the heel of his palm in one eye. Natasha refused to let him off the hook, even as he sat up and drew a deep breath and gathered himself. She knew him, knew the bullshit he always pulled when it came to being hurt. Before the mess in Crimea, he really hadn't been wounded much, at least not to her knowledge. But she'd seen him play down his injuries before. After the Battle of New York. Recently. The goddamn super soldier serum made it so that he could ignore them and get away with it enough to make it seem okay when it really wasn't. All her nightmares battered at her patience. "You're hurt. Don't lie."

Steve glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He sagged, bowing his head a little like he'd been discovered so there was no point in continuing with his act. "I think there's a bullet in my shoulder."

"What?" Sam asked incredulously.

Natasha was more angry than surprised. "You think?"

"Pretty sure."

It didn't seem like he'd been shot during the fight yesterday (although she hadn't had her eye on him the whole time and everything had happened so fast she could have missed it). Furthermore, there was no way he could have gotten sick so quickly from a gunshot wound only hours old. An image of that video from the docks in Algiers flashed through her addled mind and she realized that Sitwell had shot him. "How long?" she demanded, struggling to hold onto her frayed patience and composure.

Steve winced again. "Three days."

"Three days? You've been running around with a bullet in your shoulder for three days. Holy shit."

Steve managed a lop-sided smile for Sam. "Give or take. I healed up around it. Probably should get it out, but it doesn't have to be done now."

Sam looked dismayed and surprised. "Probably?"

"I tried, but there wasn't much time and I couldn't get at it too well." Steve rotated his left shoulder experimentally and grimaced harder. The motion was stilted. Someone less familiar with him might not have noticed, but Natasha did. The joint wasn't functioning right, which likely meant the bullet was lodged inside it and preventing it from healing properly. And it had likely introduced infection, either from the initial shot but more likely from Steve's attempts to get it out. And from whatever mud and dirt and who knew what in which he'd been since then. "It's not a big deal. Leave it."

Natasha wasn't satisfied with that. Neither was Sam, frankly. Steve knew his body and the extremes of which it was capable better than anyone, so if it wasn't causing him serious distress, it probably could be left as it was. Walking around with bullets inside you was something of an occupational hazard, part and parcel of being a soldier or a spy. And the infection (while momentarily distressing) was not an issue. Steve's enhanced immune system would likely defeat it in short order. But Steve was obviously in pain, and they had a moment now to take care of it. And she needed the time. The time to muster up the courage to say what she had to say to him.

"Get up," Sam ordered gently. "Let's get it cleaned up."

"Sam," Steve protested.

"Up. Then we'll get the hell out of here."

Steve glanced at Sam, with whom he'd already seemingly formed this easy friendship. Then he turned to Natasha, but she suddenly couldn't meet his gaze. _Barnes. You need to tell him about Barnes._ Sitting still was impossible. Being motionless allowed her thoughts to catch up with her, so she flung her legs to the floor again and tried to stand. "Nat, whoa. Wait!" Steve was there, and Sam, steadying her.

She pulled away from their hands. "I'm fine," she said tensely, as though challenging them to argue with her. Sam was surprised, and Steve looked a tad hurt at her brusque refusal of his help. She hated this reaction she had whenever she was upset about her past, this bitter anger and drive to push Steve away. It had nearly destroyed their friendship and trust in each other in Crimea. She wasn't about to let it damage them now, not when so much depended on them and their faith in each other, so she softened her expression and her tone. "I'm fine." She put weight on her leg. It hurt badly, so much so that for a moment the room spun and she questioned her sanity, but she breathed through it. She knew she wasn't fooling Steve; he was watching her with his worry plain as day all over his face. She felt bad for getting shot, for frightening him. She felt bad for everything, including things she hadn't said yet. The pain was so overwhelming she nearly lost her composure, but she didn't. She just tested her weight on her damaged leg, the aggravated muscles and skin stretching around the injury. It was bearable.

"Bathroom." Sam gestured to the adjacent washroom. Steve lingered a moment more, observing Natasha and making no effort to hide his concern, before shuffling to the bathroom. Sam moved fast, urgency in his step like it was really sinking in that he had two fugitive SHIELD agents in his house. He pawned through the drawers of the guestroom, finding a change of clothes. One set clearly belonged to a woman. He handed them to Natasha.

Natasha cocked an eyebrow, struggling to summon her normal cool. "Old girlfriend?"

"Sister. Probably too small, but it's better than nothing." Sam looked in the bathroom where Steve was sitting on the edge of the tub. "Want me to wake Kate?"

Steve was gingerly pulling his shirt off. "No, let her sleep. She's done too much already." The bloodied cloth came away and revealed a reddened scab on his shoulder, right below his collar bone. It was large and messy, caked with dried blood and inflamed. The skin around it looked hot and irritated, spidery lines of red fanning out from the spot. It had obviously healed and been reopened a few times. In addition to that, a colorful and motley assortment of deep bruises decorated his chest, spreading out from his left flank and down his hip.

Sam grimaced. "Let me get some stuff. Back in a second."

Natasha stepped closer once Sam was gone, limping into the bathroom. Steve looked away from the mess of his shoulder at her approach. He gave her a weak smile. "Want my help?"

"Steve, I–"

"Come here." He was on his feet again, reaching for her. She came closer, keeping her weight off of her bad leg, and let him undress her. His hands were tender and gentle as they helped her pull her ruined, blood-soaked pants down. The bandage around her thigh was thick, but she could tell the stitches had been made by experienced hands and the wound had been dressed well. He took the clean clothes from her and eased her legs into the pants one at a time before pulling them up to her waist. He carefully removed her ripped top, leaning in to plant a quick, soft kiss to her shoulder, before aiding her in sliding her arms through the sleeves of the new shirt. He sank back down onto the edge of the tub before beginning to button it. She didn't need this help, not in the least, but it was comforting to have him take care of her like this. It always was. _Addiction. _She banished the thought and tried not to shiver. Finally he reached down to tie her shoes. When he was done, his fingers slipped carefully back up her legs, ghosting over the wound with pained reverence, before coming to rest on her hips. It didn't take much for his head to sink tiredly into her stomach. Natasha wove her fingers through his hair, tucking him to her and holding him tight. Already the fever seemed lessened. "That drive," he said softly. "When I took it off the _Lemurian Star_, there was a log of where it's been. Lots of locations, but one was repeated a lot. 39-23'17" North, 075-19'51" West. Whatever's there has to do with whatever is on the drive. And Sitwell mentioned something called Project: Insight." _Project: Insight. Operation: Paperclip. _"You know what that is?"

She closed her eyes. She couldn't focus on this. _Tell him. You need to tell him._ Tell him what? She had no proof, nothing beyond a hazy memory that until that morning she hadn't acknowledged in what felt like forever. She had nothing beyond a chance connection between a ghost from her past and a picture in a museum. _It can't be him. It can't. _She was talking. Her lips were moving, and her voice was quietly filling the bathroom, but she was numb and lost. "No. But I know who killed Fury," she announced. "I know who's after you."

Steve turned his head and gazed up at her, his eyes teeming with concern and confusion. "Who is he?"

She faltered. The words wouldn't come. She couldn't hurt him like this. She couldn't do it. She'd promised herself she'd never hurt him again, and now… "Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists. The ones that do call him the Winter Soldier. He's credited with dozens of high-profile assassinations over the last fifty years."

He squinted, the confusion outpacing the concern. "That's not possible. He's got to be a ghost story."

She shook her head. "No, he's not. When Brushov was my handler, I worked with him once." She released a slow breath, fighting against the pull of her memories and distancing herself from the mess of emotions inside her. "Back then he was the weapon of General Aleksander Lukin, another higher-up in the Russian military who was a sometimes ally of Brushov. Lukin and Brushov wanted to put down a possible coup in the Russian government, one that would have proven extremely disadvantageous to the both of them had it succeeded. The Winter Soldier and I completed the mission. Afterwards, I was supposed to kill him, but… I didn't do it." _I couldn't do it. _And she couldn't do this. She couldn't make herself tell him more. Steve looked at her with expectant eyes, _innocent _eyes that cut straight through to her heart like a knife. She wavered, her leg throbbing. "I didn't see him again for years. In 2009, I was escorting a nuclear scientist out of Iran. The Winter Soldier shot out my tires near Odessa, and we ended up going straight over a cliff. I pulled us out, but the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my scientist. This scar?" She lifted her shirt slightly to reveal the shiny, raised marks of flesh adorning the skin above and just to the right of her left hip. "He shot the scientist straight through me."

Steve stared at the scar before brushing his thumb over it. Natasha went on because the silence was too stressful, too damning. "Whoever he's working for now, it's someone with a lot of power. Someone ruthless. He's… He's a machine, Steve. He doesn't think or feel. And he doesn't stop."

They were quiet with that. Steve sagged slightly, leaning into Natasha wearily. "Then we have to get some place safe," he murmured. "And we have to move fast."

_Tell him. _"Steve, I…" _Tell him now._

"What?" he asked. She hadn't meant to look at him, tried so hard to keep her eyes focused on the white grout of the tile inside Sam's shower to stay firm, but her gaze shot downward of its own accord and met his. He was so open, waiting for her to speak, offering her everything and asking for nothing in return. He was always this way. Giving. Selfless. _Trusting_. For the first time since they'd come back from Russia and she'd moved into his life, she wasn't sure of herself. The inclination to run and hide and bury the damn truth down so deep that it would never again see any light… That inclination was so strong. She couldn't hurt him. She couldn't do it.

"What's the matter? Tell me." _Tell him. _He took her hesitation as a sign that she needed his support and solace, which she did, but not for the reasons he thought. "It'll be alright," he swore when her silence wore on too long. "Whatever it is, we'll face it together." He had no idea. _What if it's not true? What if he's not Barnes? I can't do that to him. I can't… _She couldn't explain it. It was impossible that a soldier who'd fallen hundreds of feet from a train in the wintry mountains of Switzerland seventy years ago could be the world's deadliest assassin. It just _couldn't_ be possible. This was the product of her imagination, of her paranoia, of terror and trauma mixing her memories of the Winter Soldier with some random and unrelated aspect of something she'd seen. _It's not real._

_But what if it is real? _The mere concept was inconceivable. And she had an obligation to be truthful with Steve. _Tell him now._ Christ, she couldn't make herself do it.

A scuffle in the room beyond ended their fleeting moment of privacy. Sam was there, bearing more bandages and supplies, and behind him Kate followed. She was rumpled from sleep, pale and troubled like she was questioning if yesterday's incredible and dangerous events could possibly be real. She pulled herself together with remarkable poise, though. "You were shot? You should have said something."

Natasha stepped aside. Steve didn't look pleased. "Kate, you should go. You've already done too much."

"I tried to tell her that," Sam insisted.

The young woman pushed her way inside the bathroom, eyeing Steve's shoulder critically. She knelt on Steve's side, sliding her fingers into another pair of latex gloves. She touched the swollen gunshot wound carefully. "The bullet's still inside?"

"It's in the joint. I can feel it in there, up against my shoulder blade."

Kate stood, moving her hands around Steve's shoulder to the back of it. Something about the way she touched him bothered Natasha, but given how confused and generally lousy she was feeling, it probably wasn't anything more than simple, irrational jealousy (_again_). There wasn't an exit wound in Steve's back, so the bullet probably was lodged exactly where he thought it was. "I could do more damage trying to find it. You need surgery."

Steve shook his head. "No, I don't. I'll heal. Just pull it out."

Kate looks aghast. "That – that's crazy. I can't do that."

Sometimes it was all too easy to forget that Captain America had secrets too, secrets of which the general public was not aware, the serum's regenerative powers among them. Steve smiled disarmingly at Kate and grabbed her hand as it moved from shoulder. "I'll heal. Trust me. And trust me when I tell you that you don't need to do it, either."

For a civilian, Kate was certainly prepared to dive into something as hard-core as digging a bullet out of someone she barely knew. "Alright. Just hold on." She went back to the supplies Sam had brought, among them her own messenger bag which Natasha saw now had been loaded with hospital grade first aid equipment.

Sam came closer. "You sure about this?"

Steve managed another soft grin. "Yeah. I need my arm in better shape."

Sam nodded. "You're all kinds of crazy, Rogers. Both of you are."

"Yeah."

Sam's eyes darted to Natasha. "Sit. You look like you're gonna pass out." Natasha shot an angry glare at Wilson, but he wasn't daunted by it. She was irritated enough to keep it up, as ridiculous and childish as it was, for a moment before Steve grabbed her wrist and gently and carefully pulled her to sit down on the tub beside him. Taking the pressure of standing on her leg away was more relief than she wanted to admit.

Kate readied a scalpel and a long pair of forceps. "I don't have anything for the pain," she admitted, shooting Steve a worried glance.

"Not a problem," he answered.

She seemed flummoxed by that, fussing over her tools before uncapping the scalpel and going to work. Natasha couldn't see from her vantage, but something told her she should be glad for it. Steve jerked, white-faced and clenching his jaw. Sam was quick to stand over Kate as she reopened the injury, supplying bandages as needed to contend with the bleeding. Steve's breathing quickly grew more labored. His cheeks and brow shone in perspiration as he struggled through the pain, forcing himself to inhale and exhale in a slow, steady pattern. His one hand was curled over the fiberglass of the tub, his knuckles white and his fingers shaking. His other was clenched around the dirty denim of his jeans over his knee. The bathroom was silent for what felt to be forever, the quiet punctuated by only shallow, fast heartbeats and short, pained breaths.

"How is this not infected worse than it is?" Kate eventually asked. The question seemed rhetorical, and that was just as well because no one felt up to answering. She set the bloodied scalpel down and reached for the forceps, experimentally testing the plastic utensil before returning the wound. "There's a lot of dirt and gunk in here."

"Don't worry about it," Steve managed through gritted teeth.

"You're already running a fever. What about–"

"Don't worry about it," he said again. "Just clean it up as best you can and get the bullet out." Natasha didn't miss Kate's concerned glance up at Steve's face, like she thought he was crazy, but she nodded and reached for a saline wash bottle and antibiotic salve.

Sam helped without being asked, flushing out the wound with the bottle she gave him as she dug inside for the bullet. "Who shot you? The same guy you were telling me about?"

Steve was white, dizzy, and fevered, clamming up involuntarily. "No," he grunted. "Another SHIELD agent."

Sam didn't seem pleased with that. "Fantastic. Traitors in your midst?"

Steve groaned. Natasha took his hand from where he was intently rubbing his knee, curling her fingers through his to get him to stop and focus on something else. He released a breath he'd been holding and relaxed slightly, shifting his efforts to holding Natasha's hand and not crushing it. "Seems that way," he said. "SHIELD's Director was assassinated yesterday afternoon."

"That's bad," Sam commented, fully aware of the breadth of his understatement.

"I got it," Kate suddenly announced. Steve jerked, his hand clenching Natasha's tightly enough to be painful before he got control of himself. "Hold really still." The bathroom descended into complete silence again for a few long seconds as Kate maneuvered the forceps deep inside Steve's shoulder, Sam washing the flow of blood away so that it ran down Steve's side and puddled on the floor by his feet. Normally this sort of thing didn't faze Natasha, but given her own wounds and exhaustion, she felt decidedly sick watching the pink water drip down the tub. She made herself breathe, forcing down the burning in the back of her throat, and look away. "There." Kate had the bullet clamped between the forceps, a bloody, mashed thing that had mushroomed on impact with Steve's bones. She peered at it for a moment before dropping it into a plastic bag that Sam held for her. Natasha grabbed a few bandages from the stack Kate had brought, ripping the sterile wrappers off before leaning over to press them firmly against Steve's shoulder. Getting the bullet free had caused the wound to start bleeding again in earnest. "Thanks. I'll get this stitched up, and then I'll look at your leg. Let me get the suture kit."

She was up and out of the bathroom. Sam took over for Natasha, kneeling where Kate had been and putting heavy pressure on Steve's shoulder. "Is there anyone we can trust?"

Steve looked relieved that it was over. His hand shook slightly as he scrubbed it down his face. He turned and appraised Natasha helplessly. "I don't know. If there's some sort of faction infiltrating SHIELD, it makes sense the STRIKE Team is involved. But whether or not it goes up to Pierce…"

"It does," Natasha softly supplied. "It has to."

That made the situation seem even direr. Steve sighed as Sam pulled the sodden bandages away to check beneath. Already the bleeding had slowed. Sam shook his head, surprised and alarmed like he was realizing all the stories he'd heard about Captain America were true. "Where the hell can we go that SHIELD won't be able to see? They have eyes and ears everywhere, don't they?" He really had no idea how bad it was. Running from SHIELD was going to be difficult to say the least, especially since Steve was so well-known to the American public. SHIELD probably had every local law enforcement officer from here to the West Coast on the look-out. He'd been damn lucky he'd been able to slip back into DC before the manhunt had begun in earnest. And if the Winter Soldier was chasing them…

"We need to get to Tony," Steve declared. He rolled his shoulder again, grimacing as he did so but the pain clearly wasn't much of a deterrent.

"Tony Stark?"

"He's got no love for SHIELD," Steve explained. "He'll help us."

Sam looked between the two of them. He didn't doubt, at least not that they could see. He didn't question. "Alright, I'm going to get some stuff together. Let's go while we can. If we move fast we can be in New York in four hours. That's where we're headed, right?" Steve nodded. Sam was up and out of the bathroom before they could say anything else.

Natasha took the bandages, peeling them away gently to check the bleeding. "SHIELD will be expecting us to go to Stark," she quietly and solemnly announced.

"I know," Steve quietly responded, "but I don't see another choice. We need to know what's on that drive."

She stared at him again, unable to tear her eyes away, and everything was back. The Winter Soldier. Barnes. _Tell him the truth. Tell him now._ _You have to do this. You have to. _Her hands came to cup his jaw, her thumbs sweeping tenderly across his cheekbones, and she lifted his face. She couldn't make herself speak, her words failing her stupendously even though she drew a breath and opened her mouth. He looked into her eyes, his unwavering and strong. "Nat, what is it?" She brushed her thumb over his lower lip. The prickle of a couple of days' worth of facial hair lining his jaw was so odd against her fingers. Steve was always clean-shaven. Seeing him this unkempt with his eyes unnaturally bright from the fever made her feel even more unsettled. "You know you can tell me anything. What's wrong?" He gave half a smile. "Besides the obvious."

_Tell him. If it's true, he needs to know. He needs to know now. _The words prodded against the seam of her lips, insistent. Driven. Certain, even if she wasn't. She gasped something that could have been a sob, pulling him up because her leg hurt too much to permit her to bend down. Her mouth desperately claimed his, wet and hot, stealing this moment because she was afraid. Because she wanted to erase that memory threatening every second now, that memory of those dark eyes and rough lips and demanding hands. Steve's lips were soft and his hands were always tender and treated her with respect and his eyes were always so clear, so light, so beautiful. How could she tell him the truth? _No, I can't._

He pulled away to take a breath. "Nat–"

_Tell him!_ "Steve, the Winter Soldier… He's–"

"Sorry." Kate's voice from the entrance to the bathroom interrupted them, and Natasha stiffened and moved away from Steve as though burned. Kate was embarrassed and uncertain, but she still strode back to Steve's side with her kit. She crouched, opening the case. "I'll be quick," she promised.

"You probably don't need to," Steve said. He pulled the bandage away and scrutinized the wound. "Just wrap it up. It's fine. We have to go."

"I'm a nurse," Kate reminded, her voice a tad terse. "This is my job. And after everything we went through together yesterday I hope you trust me to do it right. So just let me make sure it's fine, okay?" Steve nodded after a moment, maybe a little surprised by her attitude, and she started cleaning the wound further. "Just another few minutes."

There was just something about how she said that, not quite genuinely like she had some ulterior motive in making them wait to leave that she was trying to mask with concern and prudence. That bothered Natasha as she stood there and watched. And then things she hadn't thought about since yesterday – things she really hadn't had the time or inclination to consider – prodded against her attention. Steve was thanking Kate for helping them, for taking care of Natasha's leg and his shoulder, and he was asking her to stay out of it for her own safety now, to go home to her family and get away from DC, to pretend none of this had ever happened. Kate was arguing, claiming they needed her help, but again, it seemed _forced_, as if she was hiding something. She hadn't seemed this way before, had she? And how the hell had she followed Natasha to the museum yesterday? Natasha was among the best in the world had concealing her tracks and eluding detection, and a _civilian_ had managed to find her?

Unless she wasn't a civilian.

Kate shifted just so, and Natasha's eyes darted to the unmistakable outline of a gun in the back of her pants. She'd arranged her t-shirt and sweater to obscure it, but Natasha was a master of details, and she saw it right held her breath, the hot rush of adrenaline charging her frazzled nerves, and fought to stay still. But something must have betrayed her, the slight stiffening of her form or the hardly noticeable suck of air between her lips, _something_, because Kate was on her feet, whirling and drawing her weapon. She pointed it Natasha, coolly and confidently. "Stay back. Hands up," she ordered. Her eyes were narrowed, her hands steady where they were wrapped around her firearm. It was standard issue, Natasha saw. SHIELD issue. _Shit._

"Kate?" Steve was on his feet.

Kate (or whoever she was) backed up, shifting her aim to Steve. She was getting flustered; Natasha knew the game well enough to see that. "Captain Rogers, I'm Agent Thirteen of SHIELD Special Services. I'm under orders to bring you in."

"You're…" Steve couldn't quite get his mind around it. He darted his gaze between the two women. His expression collapsed in dismayed realization. They'd been deceived. For _months._ They'd been _played_. How could they have been so stupid? "Damn it."

"Please don't make this harder than it has to be. SHIELD is on its way. They'll be here in a matter of minutes. It's best you surrender now. _Please_." That last word was spoken with a hint of desperation. She knew she couldn't handle the two of them, Captain America and Black Widow, even as injured as they were. She was outnumbered, and were it not for the gun and the element of surprise, this situation would have been over already. The tense moment dragged on, her eyes shifting between the two Avengers, her form growing increasingly rigid with the realization that she'd been discovered before whatever reinforcements she'd summoned had arrived. "SHIELD doesn't want you hurt, Captain," she eventually said. She was trying to disarm Steve with a promise of compassion and leniency. "They want to protect you. They just want answers, same as you."

_Bullshit._ And Natasha would have attacked, even with the gun pointed at her and her leg lamed, but there was thankfully no need. Sam was suddenly there, and his arm wrapped around Kate's neck from behind. The gun went off, the bullet firing into the ceiling as Kate struggled. Steve moved fast, capably prying the weapon from Kate's fingers. Once he did, Sam shoved her down onto the tiled floor of the bathroom. She looked up at them, unafraid, her face schooled into a stern expression of distrust and frustration. Sam shook his head, not so composed. "Jesus Christ. What the hell's going on? What do we do–"

Natasha answered the question before he finished asking it. Despite her injury, she snapped her good foot out and caught Kate on the side of her head. The young woman dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Sam frowned, breathing heavily. "Shit."

Steve was already moving, handing Natasha the gun and pushing past Sam to the bedroom beyond. He snatched the clean shirt Sam had collected for him from the bed and yanked it on. He ran to the window, trying to stay out of the line of sight from outside. He peeked through the blinds. Natasha could see his shoulders grow taut under the gray fabric of the t-shirt. "She's right. They're coming. They're not being subtle about it."

"What the hell," Sam breathed, rushing out to join Steve. He shook his head. "We have to get out of here."

Now Natasha could engines. A lot of them. She couldn't see as much out the window from her vantage, but the slew of black SUVs turning down the far end of the street beyond was pretty undeniable. They had seconds only. Steve charged away from the window. "Backdoor?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, but we'll never outrun them."

She saw that glint in Steve's eyes as he came closer, and she knew what he was going to suggest before the words were out of his mouth. "You two go. I'll stay."

_"What?"_ Sam didn't know Steve as well as she did so he was surprised. Natasha had expected it. She had expected it, and the minute those blue eyes, hard with certainty, held hers, she knew his reasoning was right. But she couldn't accept it, couldn't fathom it. _No. No no no–_

Steve was adamant. "It's me they're after. I'll stay. Give you two a chance to escape."

"That's fucking crazy! Come on!" Sam raged helplessly.

"You're right; we'll never outrun them like this. If I go with them, you can get away." Steve didn't look away from her, not for a second, not even when the sound of car doors opening and closing resounded through the early morning. Natasha felt it jolt her, like a bolt of lightning jabbing into her heart, and the brightly lit room was spinning and contracting around her. Steve reached into the pocket of his jeans and grabbed the USB drive. He took her hand and dropped it in her palm. His fingers forced hers to curl tightly around it. "Take this to Stark," he breathed. "Don't let them get their hands on it no matter what. You hear me? _No matter what. _Don't come for me until you get this to Tony."

_No! _She shook her head. She couldn't help herself. Damn herself and her emotions. Even if there was no choice and his logic was sound, she couldn't just let him sacrifice himself like this! Not again. Not for SHIELD or whatever was left of it. Not for her. "Steve, don't–"

"I think I can distract them a few hours. By the time they start looking for you, it'll be too late."

"You can't–"

"Yes, I can!" he argued. "And I have to. This is the only way. The only way to keep you and that drive safe. That's the only thing that matters." _Keeping you safe._

Tears burned her eyes, tears that she couldn't let herself cry because if she did, she wouldn't have the strength to stop herself. She wouldn't have the strength to leave him. To let him go again. "Please, you need to listen. I need to tell you something–"

Steve was angry. Panicked. "There's no time!" And he kissed her, fiery, frantic, and powerful, yanking her close until he was all she could taste and touch and feel. Not a second could be spent on tenderness, on weakness, on terror or doubt or _anything_. She was breathless as he pulled away and squeezed her against his chest. "I love you," he whispered into her hair. "I love you. And I'll be okay. I promise. Don't worry about me. Now go!"

And that was it. Steve pushed her to Sam, Sam who grabbed her arm tightly and dragged her limping form out of the bedroom. She staggered mindlessly, senselessly, and everything seemed to slow as Steve snatched his shield from the floor beside the bed and jumped out of the window. The blinds were ripped free and glass shattered, but in a blink he was outside and running fast. Running and leading SHIELD away from them.

Natasha couldn't think. She couldn't feel. There might have been pain and fear and panic. If there was, it was hollow, distant, and unimportant. As Sam pulled her through his house toward the door in the rear of it, as she stumbled and groaned and blinked away her tears, she sank into a willing apathy. They were outside in a breath and a beat of her dully aching heart, sprinting as fast as they could manage through the trees and bushes lining Sam's backyard and the yards of his neighbors. They ran and ran. Her leg burned and almost failed her but it didn't. _There's no other way. No other choice. Get it to Tony. Keep it safe._

Part of her heart felt like it was dying. She closed her eyes and imagined Steve, struggling to get away from SHIELD, to lead them on a chase, but eventually they would catch him. Take him prisoner. Drag him back to the Triskelion, to whatever Pierce would do to him to get what he wanted. She couldn't stand to think about it.

And she couldn't stand to think about the Winter Soldier. Did Pierce control him? Would he be there? Would he shove the barrel of his rifle into Steve's head and force him to his knees? She pictured those cold, empty eyes as Barnes pulled the trigger. Would he remember? Would it matter?

_I should have told him. I should have told him! _But she hadn't. And now she couldn't. Just like that, Steve was gone again, and she'd been too damn weak to admit the truth to him. It was too late. She wanted to scream and cry and _hurt _something. She wanted to go back and force the words out. She wanted him in her arms. She wanted what they had had the morning she'd come home to him, easy love and laughing kisses and blissful moments together. Peace. She wanted… What she wanted didn't matter. Steve had given her orders, and all she could do was follow them and pray with every bit of her heart and soul that she was wrong about the Winter Soldier.


	8. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Special warnings on this chapter for general unpleasantness. Violence and language and scenes of torture. Please read at your own discretion.

**TERMINAL FROST**

**8**

They caught him, of course. He didn't fight. He could have. He could have killed them all if he'd wanted to. But he didn't. That wasn't who he was, and that wasn't the point of this choice he'd made. He knew Natasha thought he flew by the seat of his pants sometimes. She thought he was too stubborn, impulsive, and tied to his morals. Even he thought it. He sure as hell hadn't thought it through when he'd gone after her in Crimea. Instead he'd let his heart and his instincts drive him, and he didn't regret it one bit, even knowing how hefty a price he'd have to pay. He'd do anything to protect innocent people, to do the right thing and fight for his country. And he'd do anything for her, no matter the cost.

This time he had a plan, though (well, if he was honest with himself, it really wasn't much of a plan and he'd come up with it out of desperation and terror. Bucky had told him once that sheer panic was the foundation of any great plan. If that was the case, this was going to be one of his best). His plan entailed getting close enough to Pierce to throw SHIELD off of Natasha's scent for as long as he could. It was a risk, and he damn well knew it, but if he could distract them for a few hours, she'd have a significant head start on them. Whatever was on that drive was too important to let SHIELD recover it. And if he learned more about what the hell was going on, that was just as well. However, all of that required that SHIELD capture him, so after running them around senselessly for a while, long enough, he hoped, for Natasha and Sam to get clear, he finally let them surround him. They enclosed him, a circle of black-clad soldiers and STRIKE personnel dozens strong. SHIELD wasn't fooling around. Neither was he.

Rumlow was there. "Drop the shield, Cap," he ordered. He had his gun aimed at Steve's chest. He did, as well as every other soldier present. Steve had no choice, even as he narrowed his eyes and swept a glare over the group. They were out in the middle of suburbia. It was early in the morning yet, but people were waking up and getting ready for their days. SHIELD was willing to hold Captain America at gun point and arrest him out in public like this. They _really _weren't fooling around. "I'm not going to ask again. Drop the shield."

Even though this was what he'd wanted, it was damn hard to comply. He stood still, clenching the straps of his shield harder, the moment rife with tension. It was emboldening to see he intimidated them. And it was disturbing to see that despite all the missions they'd done together, all the times he'd commanded their unit, they held no allegiance to him. Just like that, they were his enemies. _Not just like that._ It took a conscious effort to make his fingers loosen, to slide his shield from his forearm, to set it to the ground. The second he did that, they were on him. They patted him down in search of weapons. They pulled his hands behind his back and marched him at to the back of a black van. Inside that, they forced him down onto a bench and locked him into hefty restraints. The cuffs around his wrists and ankles were too strong for him to break and electromagnetically linked together and to the van itself, securing him pretty effectively. He bitterly wondered who at SHIELD had been charged with developing restraints strong enough to keep Captain America prisoner. The ride to the Triskelion was silent, Rumlow, Rollins, and a few others of the STRIKE Team sitting in front of him and beside him. Their guns were lowered but not enough for them to be construed as anything other than a reminder that he was their prisoner and struggling wasn't an option.

A half an hour later, the convoy of SHIELD SUVs and the vans entered the Triskelion through a private area in the garage. Rumlow and his men freed Steve from the restraints inside the van, manhandled him out, and held him there. "Hands on your head," the STRIKE commander ordered, and Steve complied while they readied another set of cuffs. He didn't struggle as they grabbed his wrists and yanked his arms none too gently behind his back again, tightly fastening the cuffs around them. These, too, were too strong for him to break, at least not easily and not without attracting attention.

Steve kept his face calm and impassive, betraying nothing of his doubt or his mounting dread, as the men behind him finished with his bonds. "You going to do it this time?" he asked, his voice hard with spite.

The other man glared at him. "Do what?"

"Kill me. You've tried before. Or was that all some sort of misunderstanding?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

_Right. _"The thing I don't get is why even bother to save my life if you were just going to kill me later."

Rumlow's lips twitched in a tiny bit of an amused grin. "I'm following orders, same as I always do."

"I bet you are."

"You're not doing yourself any favors here by pissing me off," Rumlow coolly reminded him. "I suggest you cooperate. Now walk."

A few seconds later had them across the garage and in front of an elevator. Steve didn't recognize this place and realized with chagrin that it likely was a direct route to the upper echelons of the Triskelion where the Secretary, the Director, and other senior and key personnel worked. It was probably meant as some sort of emergency escape, but in this case it would serve as an efficient way to transport a highly valued prisoner to the top of the building without garnering the attention of the hundreds of people working within it. Steve didn't know whether to be heartened or dismayed that Pierce wanted his capture kept secret. He was forced onto the lift, completely surrounded again by the STRIKE Team, and the elevator shot upward to the sky. Behind him, Rollins held his shield. It was difficult to stand still like this, but he'd done it before for more frightening monsters than Rumlow and his lackeys. He'd let himself be captured by Nazis, by the Red Skull, so this was nothing comparatively. He forced himself to relax as the elevator climbed the Triskelion, breathing deeply to keep his heartbeat slow and his muscles loose but ready.

The elevator chirped as it reached the top floor. The doors opened and Rumlow hooked his fingers roughly in the crook of Steve's elbow and escorted him out. They were walking down the gray corridor to what Steve assumed was Pierce's office. The entire retinue of STRIKE agents was following him; clearly they weren't going to take any chances.

Pierce, on the other hand, was. His face scrunched up in dismay and disgust at seeing the STRIKE Team pushing Steve toward him. "Is this really necessary?" he said. His eyes flicked to Rumlow, his hands set on his hips. "Let him go. Captain Rogers is not under arrest."

Rumlow was too hardened to visibly be rebuked. "Sir, he resisted–"

"And you would have done the same in his position," Pierce said. He hardly spared Rumlow a glance, keeping his gaze on Steve. His weathered face was tight with disapproval. "I think there's been a hell of a misunderstanding here, one I want cleared up. Let him free so we can have a civil discussion. I think everyone is entitled to that."

Rumlow hesitated a moment more, darting angry eyes between Pierce and Steve. Steve couldn't tell if Rumlow's indignation was an act or genuine. It could have been for show. Steve wasn't as good at reading people as Natasha was, but he wasn't naïve. It would make sense for Pierce to play him, try to turn him or manipulate him into revealing something he shouldn't by appearing to be his ally or at least sympathetic. Steve was willing to go along with it. This really wasn't his style, but he was becoming more and more aware that his style wasn't at all congruent with what SHIELD was all about. As Rumlow begrudgingly moved to unlock the cuffs, he hoped he could pull it off. Lying was not his strong suit. "I'd like my shield back," he said, rubbing his newly freed wrists.

Rollins seemed to be doing his damnedest to not glower and failed magnificently. Pierce's gaze was focused on Steve, but he was stern but otherwise unreadable. It was almost as if they were engaged in some sort of silent negotiation. "Give him his shield." The tense displeasure in the air grew even more uncomfortable, and Rollins stared menacingly at Steve, probably remembering with disdain the way Steve had confronted him aboard the quinjet in Russia when he'd been threatening Natasha. But he, too, acquiesced and handed Steve his shield back. Pierce nodded. "You're all dismissed."

Rumlow was quick to object. "Sir, this is against regulations. He should be under armed guard, and with Director Fury–"

"Regulations be damned. If Captain America has become an enemy of SHIELD, then the world has truly gone to hell. Dismissed."

Rumlow's eye twitched. "Yes, sir." He gave Steve one last scowl before turning and leading his men back down the hall. "STRIKE, move out."

Pierce watched them go, his face tight with unhappiness. Then he seemed to sag slightly, perhaps in weariness and grief, but mostly, it seemed, in frustration. His voice abandoned its hard edge. "Please come in." Steve hesitated a moment, not wanting to seem too trusting (and, honestly, not feeling very trusting), before stepping inside Pierce's spacious office. Like everything else in the Triskelion, it was gray, chrome, and silver, sleekly and minimally furnished. The wide expanse of windows displayed a gloomy and drizzly day. A long conference table filled one side, all of the black chairs empty. There was also a huge computer display along one wall, a thin piece of glass that was loaded with scrolling data, reports, and information from SHIELD's mainframe. "Unless you want to go down to medical first," Pierce said, still standing by the door. "You look banged up."

"No, it's fine," Steve said. After a beat, he added, "Sir."

"Something to drink then?"

"No, thank you, sir."

"Then have a seat." Pierce gestured to an uncomfortable but expensive looking leather couch along a coffee table. Steve lowered himself to it, ignoring every pang of his aching body and propping his shield against the side of it. Pierce came over, unbuttoning his gray suit jacket and setting it to the back of the adjacent chair before sitting himself. "First, I want you to know that I'm sorry about all of this. It's been a confusing few days." Steve nodded. Pierce sighed, shaking his head. "I hope you can understand why I had to bring you in. Nick Fury was my friend, and I want to make sure justice is done."

"Yes, sir."

"We've been friends for years, back to when I was at the State Department in Bogota. Here." He reached inside an old-fashioned manila folder, one of many strewn about the table, and handed Steve a couple of photographs. "That was taken about five years later. Right from the beginning, I knew Nick was a ruthless son of a bitch. But I also knew he was the best man possible to defend world security. He ever tell you about how we met?"

"No."

"ELN rebels took the US Embassy there in Bogota. Security got me out, but the rebels took hostages. Nick was deputy chief of the SHIELD station in Colombia at the time, and he comes to me with a plan. He wants to storm the building through the sewers. He wants to get the people out and put down the rebels in one, decisive strike. I said no. We'll negotiate, try the diplomatic route. As it turned out, the ELN didn't negotiate so they put out a kill order on our people. They go to murder the hostages in the basement, and what do they find? They find it empty. Nick had ignored my direct order and carried out an unauthorized military operation on foreign soil." Pierce smiled faintly. "You know something about making the tough choices like that, Captain."

Steve leaned back slightly, looking down on the photograph of Fury. He was young, untroubled. Less weary and burdened. Steve had never seen an image of him before he'd lost his eye. It was a stark reminder that he hadn't known Fury all that well. It was also a blatant indication of how much running SHIELD and facing the worst of the world's evil had changed Fury. "Nick saved the lives of a dozen political officers that day, including my daughter." Pierce looked saddened. "He had the guts to do what was right, even when it wasn't convenient or easy."

"So you made him head of SHIELD."

"I've never had any cause to regret it until now." The older man narrowed his gaze, scrutinizing Steve carefully. For his own part, Steve kept his face emotionless as he set the pictures down on the coffee table. "Captain, what were you doing in Algiers? It's been my assumption that Nick sent you there, but I would like to know why."

He would have to be careful with his answer. He didn't trust Pierce, but honestly, he wasn't sure he trusted what Fury had told him, either. "He thought SHIELD might be compromised, that a traitor might have had dealings with some pirates there. He wanted me to find out what was going on."

"Were you aware that Agent Sitwell had been sent to the _Lemurian Star_?"

Steve wasn't sure how Pierce could know that unless he had been the one to send him. His eyes must have betrayed his uncertainty, because Pierce settled back in his chair and pressed a small button on a remote control. The display behind them came to life with a grainy video of the docks. Steve recognized the scene well enough. He was arguing with Sitwell, getting shot by Sitwell, and then forcing Sitwell down. Pierce sighed slowly. "I know you didn't kill him, Captain, but what I don't know is who did and why."

"If you knew I didn't do it, why make people think I did?" Steve asked. He couldn't keep his suspicions from coloring his tone.

Pierce had the decency to look ashamed. "It's difficult to orchestrate a manhunt for Captain America without getting the troops rallied behind it." Steve bristled inwardly but said nothing to that. He watched as the video played on, depicting in blurry detail the bullets from afar ripping through Sitwell's chest and Steve trying to pull him to safety. The footage ended with Steve covering Sitwell's body beside the crashed SUV, before the Winter Soldier had come onto the scene. That seemed rather convenient. Pierce set the remote to the table. "I'm hoping you can shed some light on this situation. Two high-ranking SHIELD officers are dead."

"Fury didn't say anything to me about Sitwell being there," Steve conceded.

"I sent him there," Pierce said.

That wasn't surprising. "Why?"

"He was there on official business. The _Lemurian Star_ was a front for covert SHIELD operations. WorldCom is a legitimate SHIELD contractor." Another tap of Pierce's index finger to the remote filled the screen with thousands of files and documents detailing SHIELD's dealings with WorldCom. The company obviously had a long-standing relationship with SHIELD, back into the 1960s if the list flying by was any indication. Some files even seemed to concern WorldCom's relationship with Stark Industries; Howard Stark's signature adorned the bottom of many of the documents. "They've been working with us since SHIELD was founded. The company was created as an offshoot of Operation: Paperclip after World War II. As SHIELD began to absorb information and personnel from the Nazis and other dangerous world regimes, we realized that we needed a safe place to store sensitive resources." Pierce cocked his head slightly. "And that we needed to distance ourselves from the fact we were tapping some less than reputable sources to get ahead of the game. WorldCom has been a repository for SHIELD R&D since its inception."

"Sounds like you were keeping things hidden, not safe," Steve said.

"Don't be naïve. In our line of work, where the secrets of your secrets can mean the difference between war or peace, hidden and safe are rarely mutually exclusive." Pierce tapped the remote control again. "The pirates you disabled weren't pirates at all, but ex-SHIELD and ex-DGSE officers who took a vow of silence as to their mission. And their mission was a simple one: keep the data aboard the _Lemurian Star _away from those who would abuse it. Part of that was keeping up a façade that they had nothing to do with SHIELD. Sometimes to best place to hide something is right under your enemies' noses."

"Why go through all this trouble? What were they protecting?"

Pierce looked displeased. "Nick was right about one thing: SHIELD was… maybe still is compromised."

"By what?"

The other man released a long, slow breath. "It's difficult for me to think this, let alone say it, but I can't deny it. Not any longer. Not with the Council breathing down my neck. I'm afraid that Fury was a traitor."

That was a bold statement. Obviously Pierce was saying it to get a rise out of him, to judge his reaction. Obviously it was a lie. _But what if it isn't?_ Steve didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything to that. Pierce was waiting for him to speak, but if his silence aggravated or disappointed the other man, he didn't show it. Instead he slumped slightly and shook his head. "It seems he used you, Captain. He sent you out to the _Lemurian Star_ under false pretenses. He knew you could infiltrate and extract what he wanted. He sent the world's best soldier out there to make sure it got done."

"Why?"

"The prevailing theory? He was selling classified SHIELD R&D to some very bad people, R&D that was safely housed aboard the _Lemurian Star_ and protected by Georges Batroc. The sale went sour, and that led to Nick's death."

Steve paused for a moment, his mind racing through this scenario. Could it be possible? His gut said no, but his mind wasn't so convinced. "If you really knew Nick Fury, then you'd know that's not true."

Pierce's face softened in grief. "Don't you think I want to believe that? I wish I could. The Council has been suspecting Nick of something like this for some time, and I kept defending him." He stood, jabbing his hands in his pockets as he walked away. "I kept telling them it couldn't be possible. Nick Fury was a hero, not a traitor. But I can't keep denying it. That's why I want to talk to you. If he said anything to you about his motives, I want to know. I want to exonerate him if I can."

"He told me he couldn't say anything more than what he did," Steve answered.

"And what was that?"

"That SHIELD might be compromised," Steve said again. "He thought whatever was aboard the _Lemurian Star_ might be evidence of it." He wouldn't reveal more than that, not about Rumlow or Fury's suspicions that the STRIKE Team had tried to have him killed. Not when he was fairly certain the STRIKE Team was allied with Pierce.

"That's not proof of anything," Pierce said. A mixture of disappointment and irritation colored his voice.

"What proof do you have that he betrayed you?"

"He lied to me. And he lied to you. Did you know he bugged your apartment?" Steve raised his chin and fought to keep the surprise from his face. That was a low blow, even if it was true. "Did you know he had another agent spying on you, posing as your neighbor? He's _been_ lying to you, Captain, ever since he first approached you about the Avengers Initiative. He lied to you about sending Stark into Stuttgart during the Loki incident. He lied to you about Phase Two. He lied to you about Phil Coulson." That did strike home, and it struck hard. Steve averted his gaze, rising from the couch and planting his hands on his hips as he turned away. Pierce went on. "He lied to you about your mission into Crimea, a mission which, by the way, nearly cost you your life. He lied to you about Sitwell's role in Algiers. He's been trying to tie you to him to keep you blinded to the truth. He did the same to me. What's that old saying? Keep your friends close but your enemies closer."

The silence that came was heavy. Steve couldn't believe this. He'd never trusted Fury, not really, but if this was true, it heralded a level of deception and betrayal that he could hardly fathom. Pierce's tone softened as though in sympathy. "I know it's disturbing. Damn upsetting, if I want to be honest with myself. But he wasn't who we thought he was. That's becoming more and more obvious to me. He lied to _everyone._" Steve sighed slowly, trying to regain his composure as he stared at the other side of the room. "He betrayed you. He betrayed me. He betrayed all of SHIELD. And now he's dead, killed by the same man who shot Sitwell and who's chasing you down. Obviously Nick's buyers are looking for what he sold them, and they think you have it. Do you?"

He wasn't going to answer that. "What's Project: Insight?"

Pierce turned and cocked an eyebrow. "How do you know about that?"

"Does it matter, sir? What is it?"

Pierce was displeased again. He walked slowly to his desk. "Project: Insight is the next step in SHIELD's war on terror and evil. After the Battle of New York, the Council decided to go forward with a long-term, precision plan to eliminate hostile threats across the globe. It's been in top secret development since then. It will launch soon, if the Council has its say. Nick was trying to delay it, though he wouldn't tell me why. It would make sense if he was trying to sell sensitive intel about it." He tipped his head back to Steve. "The _Lemurian Star_ was performing key satellite launching and testing operations for Project: Insight. The data Fury sent you to retrieve has something to do with that. Something vitally important to it." He smiled weakly. "Sorry. I'd like to tell you more, but you don't have high enough security clearance."

Pierce was lying. Sitwell had obviously known about Project: Insight, and his clearance had been lower than Steve's was. Still, Steve didn't reveal that he knew that. If Pierce was corrupt, the only leverage he had in this situation was that conversation he'd had with Sitwell before the agent had been shot and the data he'd brought back from the _Lemurian Star_, neither of which he was interested in giving up_. _"Captain," Pierce began, drifting toward the window behind his desk. He leaned against it, gazing darkly outside. "I wasn't lying to you. No matter what else Nick Fury was, there was a time when he was my friend. We both knew that no matter the diplomacy and the hand-shaking and the rhetoric, building a better world sometimes meant having to tear the old one down. I don't know what made Nick do what he did, what could have possibly driven him to betray everything he believed in like this. Money? Unimportant to him. Power? He had everything he could have wanted right here. That doesn't leave much else but fear. The people who could frighten a man like Nick… Those can only be the worst sort of evil the world can muster, and the world can muster some terrible things. Those people could have gotten their hands on resources that would have tipped the balance of power toward our enemies." He shook his head and turned to look at Steve. "Our common enemies. War. Chaos. Anarchy. That's why you went after General Brushov like you did, why you crashed a plane full of bombs into the Arctic to save our country seventy years ago. You _know_ how dark and dangerous things really are."

Steve didn't argue with that. "And the fact that our enemies, whoever they are, got their hands into our organization, got their hands into our leader, makes me really angry." Pierce dropped his arm from the window. "So I need to ask you again. Do you have the data from the _Lemurian Star_?" The question was calm, softly spoken. It was difficult to read through the words. Was there a threat behind them, a threat of what would happen to him if he didn't hand over what he had and said everything he knew? Or was this simply something spoken by a man desperately trying to make heads or tails of a bad situation in order to keep it from becoming worse? "I want to be very clear. You have an obligation as an agent of SHIELD to turn in that data. It's the only copy of it that there is. If you've lost it or it's fallen into the hands of the enemies…"

"I have it."

Honestly, Steve didn't know why he expected a reaction. There wasn't one. Perhaps Pierce wasn't a spy, but he hadn't gotten to be in such a powerful position as the Secretary of Defense and a member of the World Security Council by being easy to read or anticipate. Steve dropped his gaze, releasing a long breath. "Nick told me not to give it to anyone but him."

Pierce nodded. He walked around his desk to stand in front of Steve. "I know. But I need you to give it to me."

Steve slid his hand into the pocket of his jeans. The USB drive was in there. The _other_ USB drive. The one Fury had given him to use to copy the data from the _Lemurian Star._ The two drives had been so similar that he was willing to bet Pierce wouldn't be able to tell the difference. But he wasn't about to hand it over without some concessions on Pierce's part. That was part of the reason he'd done this. "If I hand this over, I want your assurance that you'll call off any hunt you're conducting for Agent Romanoff."

"Agent Romanoff has never interested me," Pierce replied. He seemed angered at Steve's negotiation.

_Sure, she hasn't._ "With all due respect, sir, don't play me for a fool. If you were trying to get me, you were trying to get her." Pierce didn't so much as blink. "She wants out of DC. After losing Nick, she needs time to be alone and regroup. Let her go."

"This isn't some sort of hostage negotiation. Romanoff is AWOL, and she's an asset we can't afford to lose right now."

"You want me to trust you, sir. Call it a token of good faith." Steve pulled his hand free of his pocket and held it out slightly, unfurling his fingers to reveal the silver USB drive resting on his palm.

Pierce stared at the drive for a moment, his eyes flicking from the SHIELD emblem on the side of the small device to Steve's deadpan expression. "I have to admit I didn't expect this from you. You'd weigh national, even global, security on my promise to leave Agent Romanoff alone?"

_What surprises you more?_ Steve bitterly wondered. _That I'd do that or that I don't trust you not to hurt her? _"Please, sir," he said in a weary voice. That wasn't too hard to muster at least. "I just want to make sure she doesn't get dragged back into this before she's ready. Director Fury meant a lot to her. It'll kill her to learn he betrayed her. She's hurting."

Pierce's face softened. He reached out his hand. "Aren't we all. You have my word. She can come back when she's ready. And you don't need to do anything more than this. You've been through enough."

Steve hesitated a moment more, or rather made a show of hesitating. Mostly his mind was racing. The minute he gave Pierce that drive, he was committed. He had no idea how much time he would have before Pierce actually checked the contents of the device and found it empty. With any luck, he'd bought Natasha and Sam a few hours. And with any luck, he'd be long gone.

Steeling himself, he slipped the USB drive into Pierce's hand. The Secretary seemed the tiniest bit surprised and relieved. "Thank you, Captain. I appreciate it. I realize it's not easy to trust, especially in this business."

"No, sir," he agreed, "it's not."

Pierce nodded. He laid a friendly hand on the center of Steve's back and turned him toward the door. Steve bent to grab his shield. "I'm going to have someone escort you to the medical bay. Then you go and get cleaned up and find something eat. And rest." He smiled, but Steve couldn't help but feel like he was being brushed off. That was fine with him. All he wanted to do now was find Clint and get the hell out of there. Pierce stopped him by the door and grasped his hand, shaking it firmly. "Those are orders by the way, Captain. I'm going to need you in the coming days to help hunt down whoever murdered Agent Sitwell and Director Fury. We'll talk more later this afternoon."

"Yes, sir."

"Agent Carter's waiting outside. She'll take you down."

Steve's mouth came open in shock before he managed to get a hold of himself. Kate – Agent Thirteen – Agent _Carter _– was there in the hallway. She'd changed from the civilian clothes she'd had on earlier that morning, now sporting a chic, gray pantsuit with a light blue blouse beneath. She looked entirely different from the sweet girl who needed help moving her furniture and brought him coffee and flirted with him on occasion. This girl was poised and professional, her honeyed curls framing her pretty face that seemed just a bit haggard and uncomfortable. Steve couldn't help but stare. _Agent Carter_. _Sharon._ Peggy's niece (grandniece, really, but _still_) had been living across the hall from him for months and he'd never noticed. Now that he looked more carefully, now that he _knew_, he thought he could see just a bit of Peggy in her eyes. Just a touch of the way Peggy had always carried herself. He didn't know whether to be angry or ashamed. He settled on angry. "Captain," she said softly in greeting, lowering her gaze.

"I don't need an escort," he snapped as he walked by her down the corridor.

"You don't have a choice. I have orders."

"That seems to be a common excuse around here lately," Steve coldly replied. Still, she wasn't dissuaded by the ice in his tone. She fell in step with him, even as he quickened his pace away from Pierce's office. They were at the elevator in a matter of seconds. Steve's heart pounded, tight with such a storm of emotions that he couldn't even begin to separate them. Still, his ire won out. "Why didn't you tell me? Don't tell me you didn't know about what Peggy and I–"

"I knew," she said quietly, harshly. "Why do you think I was chosen for this detail?"

That only threw fuel on the fire. The lift arrived, and Steve hardly waited for the doors to slide open before charging inside. She followed. "What, so you could use it against me if you needed to? Blind-side me with your ace in the hole if it turned out that spying on me wasn't enough to get what SHIELD wanted?"

Carter's face hardened and her tone was clipped and curt. "Medical bay," she ordered the computer once it had registered their identities.

"Ignore that," Steve snapped. "Where's Agent Barton?"

The computer processed for a split second, likely using the Triskelion's slew of biometric scanners to approximate Clint's location. "Agent Barton was last detected entering the lobby."

"Take us there," Steve ordered. To hell with hiding his intentions. Anxiety coiled in the pit of his stomach. He had a feeling that if he didn't make a move to escape now, he wasn't going to be able to, and he needed to escape.

"No," Carter hotly said. She darted a glance at him from the corner of her eye as if she was daring him to challenge her again. "Medical bay."

"Medical bay, confirmed."

The elevator immediately began to move, small drops of rain caressing the windows as they descended from the top of the Triskelion. "Where the hell do you get off?" Steve snapped, flustered enough to abandon trying to control the lift's destination for now. "How much of what I've said and done have you reported back, huh? Everything?"

"Nothing."

"You're a damn poor liar!"

"You have no idea what I am."

"A wolf in sheep's clothing comes to mind."

"I'm not lying." Carter's jaw tightened. She folded her arms across her chest, standing as far from Steve as possible. Steve clenched and unclenched his fists as his side, glaring at her unabashedly. He was darkly beginning to wonder if there was anyone left to betray him today. "I wasn't spying on you. I was there to protect you."

"On whose orders?"

"Fury's," she coolly responded, every bit as incensed as he was. Steve's eyes widened slightly, and his anger was tempered by surprise. He'd been lied to a lot recently, but for some reason when he looked into Carter's eyes, he knew she was telling the truth. Peggy had never been anything but honest with him from the moment they'd met, brutally so at times, and Sharon's expression reminded him so much of her. Carter deflated a bit, though not enough to shed her anger. "He asked me to make certain you were safe, and that's what I did."

The spite came back hard and fast. "By lying to my face every time we spoke?" he returned. "By ratting us out back there?"

"I saw the assassin who's trying to kill you," she said. "Who do you think made him run yesterday when you were fighting him? You're better off here. And if I was really as heartless as you think, I would've turned you in last night."

"Why didn't you?"

Carter's mouth fell open. But before she could manage an answer, the elevator came to a stop halfway down the tower. The doors opened to reveal Rumlow, Rollins, and the rest of the STRIKE Team. Steve stepped back, bringing his shield up to bear. He supposed he should have been shocked, but he wasn't. Carter was, though. She dropped her arms from her chest, eyeing the company of armed soldiers in alarm. "What is this?"

Rumlow glared at Steve. "Out, Carter."

"What's going on?" she demanded again, moving just a bit closer to Steve. Everyone noticed it.

"Get the fuck out of the elevator, agent," Rumlow responded, his words slow and exaggerated so there could be no mistake. "Unless you want to go down with him."

Carter's face darkened even further, but she still didn't move. "Our orders were to escort Captain Rogers to medical," she said.

"Your orders were," Rumlow corrected. "Mine are to make sure he dies, right here and right now. Last chance to bow out." He didn't give her much. A second, really. Then he sneered and drew a stun baton from his belt. "Suit yourself."

The STRIKE Team charged. Carter reached for her gun, but it was kicked from her hand before she even had a chance to thumb its safety off. She was overwhelmed instantly by Rollins and another Steve didn't know, the two men shoving her to the back left corner of the lift. All of the rest of them went straight for Steve. He kicked out at one, catching him in the chest and knocking him back into the group, but there were too many and there wasn't enough room to maneuver. Steve gritted his teeth as a stun baton snapped down across his back. The pain was excruciating, a rippling tide of current across his skin and muscles that infiltrated and seemingly burned his bones. He knew right away they had the batons set to an unsafe level for a normal person, firing with enough voltage to be lethal. But that thought was fleeting under the debilitating agony, and all he could do for a moment was fight to get his lungs to stop seizing before snapping out his fist and catching whoever was holding the baton against him. The man cried out, smashing into one of the rear windows of the elevator car and nearly breaking it.

Steve tried to stand once the pain was gone, but it was too late. With the entirety of the STRIKE Team bearing down on him, he could barely get his feet beneath him before they wrenched his shield away and pushed and shoved him to the front of the elevator. A particularly burly guy wrapped a huge, beefy arm around Steve's neck while Rumlow and the others tried to reattach the cuffs to his wrists. There were so many arms around him and hands on him. He went rigid, fighting with all of his strength, as Rumlow successfully got one of the cuffs around his left wrist and activated it. Steve growled as the incredibly potent magnetic force tried to drag his hand up to the metal surrounding the elevator door. Added to that was the strength of everyone around him as they grabbed him and tried to push him back. If that cuff made contact with the door frame…

It didn't. Steve gave a hoarse cry, yanking his arm down. He landed his elbow into the midriff of the man holding him from behind, and that was enough to loosen the choking grasp around his neck. He moved fast, faster than they did, twisting his hand around and snapping the arm of one of the men trying to restrain him. He squirmed, trying to keep them from cuffing his other wrist, lashing out with one foot and cracking a man's jaw. The agent been holding the second cuff, and it flew to the side wall of the elevator and stuck there. Steve lashed out again, his elbow driving into another man's face and knocking him down, before using the man behind him as leverage to jump up. A split kick drove two more back, each crumpling, but as they were hitting the floor he'd already fisted the shirt of the man behind him and hauled him over his shoulder like he didn't weigh hundreds of pounds. The whole elevator shook as the hefty mass landed on top of the other men.

Steve heard Sharon cry out, and that was enough to distract him for a second. Rumlow kicked at his careening fist and knocked his cuffed hand back just enough for the magnetic force to grab him. It took him by surprise, pulling his wrist right to the door frame. Panic burst over him for a split second, and that was all he had before Rumlow was on him, the stun baton cracking with energy. The first strike he blocked, but the next he couldn't and the baton was rammed into his side. Steve howled in pain, trying to hang onto consciousness. Rumlow was hideous as he pressed the baton deeper, jolting Steve's helpless body. Steve twisted, fighting for breath, fighting to keep his wits under the torture, and snatched the baton against him with his free hand. A twist of his fingers had Rumlow stumbling away, and Steve landed a fierce kick in the agent's stomach. He flew back, cracking the window of the elevator again when he struck it.

Steve turned. One of the remaining men drove another stun baton at him. He caught the blow and pushed it off course to hit another of the agents. The man jolted unnaturally before collapsing. Another tried to pin him, but Steve kicked him back. He turned and jumped, bracing his boots a few feet up against the wall. He grabbed his trapped hand around the wrist and pulled as hard as he could, shaking from the effort. _Come on._ He could feel the electromagnetic force weaken as he put more and more of his strength into it, his body throbbing in desperation. _Come on. Come on!_

Finally it gave. He flipped and landed on the floor of the elevator with a thud. The remaining SHIELD agents were on him, but their eyes were wide with terror and a dawning realization that they weren't going to win this fight. Their faces were bathed in sweat, their punches and kicks thrown sloppily, and Steve expertly dodged and countered. A second later, they were all down.

All except Rumlow and Rollins, and Rollins had his hand in Sharon's hair and her down on her knees. Steve rose to his full height, breathing heavily and glaring at Rumlow. "Whoa, big guy," breathed Rumlow. He held his hand out as though to appease Steve. He still held two stun batons, one in either hand. He tipped his head a little, panting himself, and said, "I just want you to know, Cap. None of this has ever been personal!" He charged with that, stabbing the stun baton at Steve. Steve caught the first blow on his forearm, pushing the crackling stick away from his body, but Rumlow was quick to jab the second baton into his stomach. Pain exploded from his abdomen up his chest and down to his groin, and he nearly collapsed from its intensity. Rumlow held it there, letting the electricity jolt through Steve's hapless form until Steve finally overcame it enough to drive a punch at Rumlow. The pain was serious enough that his blow wasn't as strong or well-aimed as it could have been, and Rumlow batted it away. That lifted the stun baton from his body for a blessed second at least, but the STRIKE commander was quick to hit him with again, this time higher up on his rib cage. Steve screamed in pain, his heart laboring under the shock. It took all of his strength, but he grabbed Rumlow under his arms and flung him up into the top of the elevator. The agent hit hard, cracking the ceiling above them, before falling heavily back down onto the floor.

Steve stared down on his unmoving form, fighting to catch his breath. Then he looked at Carter, but she'd taken care of Rollins on her own during all of that, her gun pointed at his scrunched up form at her feet. The two of them were the only ones standing, dozens of bodies strewn about them. "You okay?"

She nodded, her eyes wide with surprise and fear. She had a bruise along her jaw; Steve couldn't remember if that had been there before. "What the hell is happening?" she asked softly.

There was no time to explain. Steve slammed his boot down on his shield where it had been dropped, and it spun upward and onto his arm. He rammed it against the cuff around his wrist, cutting it away. Then he stepped over the mess of bodies to the elevator door, wondering for a second if it would be better to try and take the elevator down or to chance the stairs. He didn't have to wonder long. Down the hall another company of soldiers appeared, guns raised and aimed at him. "Rogers! Hands in the air!"

Steve jerked back in surprise. "Hang on!" he said to Sharon, and he whirled, bringing the sharp edge of his shield up in the spin. He sliced through the glass on the side of the elevator and its cables. The elevator dropped like a rock, screaming as it descended rapidly. Steve ducked against the corner, watching as Sharon gasped but did the same. A dozen floors flew by in a breath. The emergency brakes kicked in, stopping the elevator with a violent, abrupt jerk and loud squeal.

Steve caught his breath and quickly regained his footing, stepping to the door. Carter was pale but otherwise seemed unharmed. She shakily joined Steve at the open elevator doors. They were in between floors, too high for Carter to climb but he could lift her out. Steve was about to do that when he heard the thunder of boots coming down the hall beyond. _Damn it._ He grabbed the elevator door and pulled it closed one-handed.

Carter shook her head, moving away. She lifted her gun, watching with wide, confused eyes as Steve moved to the side of the elevator that overlooked the Potomac and the lower sections of the Triskelion. He grasped the railing, realizing with dread that this was his only way. The lobby was still maybe a hundred feet below. The fall would be fatal for anyone else. "You're not going to…"

"No choice," Steve responded.

"Give it up, Rogers! You've got nowhere to go!" came a furious shout from outside.

Steve took a step away from the window, steadying himself. "Captain, don't do this," Sharon said. Her hand clenched tighter around her gun like part of her wanted to force him to stop. Maybe she would. Clearly she had had no idea how deep the corruption inside SHIELD ran. Steve ignored her, adjusting the straps of his shield to ensure he had a good grip. His shield was all he had to save his life right now. "Captain. _Steve. _I'm sure there's some explanation–"

He ran. The window burst when he collided with it, and then he was falling, sailing through the warm, rainy air with a spray of glass surrounding him. Steve's heart seemed to be stopped in his chest as he put his shield beneath him and curled himself behind it. A breath later he slammed through the glass roof of the lobby. Vaguely he heard people screaming and things shattering, but it was distant, drowned out by the rush of air. He hit the ground hard. The killing force of the collision was mostly absorbed by his shield, but enough got through to send hot bolts of agony jabbing through his left arm and side. For a moment he could only lay there, broken and pulverized glass drizzling down around him. The pain was too excruciating to overcome, and it took a great deal of effort to suck a breath in through his gritted teeth. _Get up. _The vertigo was too much, and he rolled gingerly onto his belly, scrambling to get his knees under him. _Get up!_

_Go!_

He did. His first steps were wobbly, and he staggered, half bent around his pulsing midsection. People were running away from him, and an alarm started blaring. Steve ground his teeth together, feeling something warm and slick leaking down his left side that he ignored as he sprinted across the wide expanse of the lobby. _The garage. Get to the garage._ There he could steal a car and get to the bridge, get across the Potomac and out of SHIELD's grasp. The exit from the lobby to the garage was ahead of him now. He could reach it. He would. He'd get out of there. Escape and find Natasha. Hopefully he'd bought her a couple of hours at least. Hopefully the data was safe. They could come back for Clint. They would have to. They would–

A loud _crack_ resounded through the lobby, and agony exploded through his left leg. Steve went down hard, the bullet tearing through his knee, breaking bone and cutting flesh. Suddenly he was back _there_, on Brushov's ship with the Red Guardian pummeling him like a madman. His mind slipped from his control as he fell, a million unwanted memories bombarding him. Blood and fire. Death. _Natasha. _The gun against his chest, her cold lips and icy eyes, and the pain. So much pain. He fought it off but only just, and when he came back to himself, he'd lost whatever precious time he might have had to escape.

Steve turned and glanced behind him to the place from where the shot had come. He expected to see the Winter Soldier's shining metal arm, a long and deadly rifle tight in his hands, but he wasn't there. SHIELD sharpshooters were moving along the walkway of second floor on the other side of the lobby. He didn't have the time to look more carefully. They were coming. He pulled his hands away from the bloody mess, scrambling for purchase against to floor to push himself up. His left leg was done for; he couldn't begin to bend it or put his weight on it, and when he realized that, he fell again. _Get up. Come on!_ _Run!_ He couldn't, not fast enough. The sound of boots on the marble floor was thunderous. "On your knees! _On your knees!_"

Steve spun, bringing his shield to bear, but there were dozens of soldiers surrounding him. Dozens. He could have fought them all perhaps, but not with a lamed leg and not without risking his life. And maybe he would have done that in the past. But he thought of Natasha, of the pain and devastation she'd feel at his death, at his senseless sacrifice. And he was furious with himself, with how goddamn _stupid _he'd been to think he could trust SHIELD enough to put himself in its hands. He should have known better. He should have known better!

He knew better than to fight now. He was dropping his shield before he even thought to do it. And the minute he did, they were on him. He was down on his knees again, his hands on his head, more guns than he cared to count aimed at his defeated form. They were patting him down and grabbing his arms and wrenching them behind his back. They were shoving him lower to the floor with their knees and boots and hands, cuffing him again. And then they were hauling him up and making him walk, even as he limped and nearly lost his balance. People were staring. SHIELD agents. Techs. Visitors and businessmen and politicians. People were standing, pale and shocked and doing _nothing_, as Captain America was taken prisoner and dragged unceremoniously back into the depths of the Triskelion.

This time Steve fought. And this time he was afraid.

* * *

They took him down to the detention level. Even though it was buried beneath the Triskelion, it was well-lit and as immaculately clean as the rest of the building. Still, it felt undeniably dark and forbidding, every bit like a prison. And even though they passed people on their way down, the complete apathy persisted. Nobody stopped. Nobody looked twice, even as Steve struggled as he walked and dripped a bloody path behind him, even as the guards hit him and dragged him and threatened him. Nobody helped. Nobody did anything. SHIELD was compromised. _SHIELD was compromised._

The guards (Steve was at least slightly relieved that they were still intimidated enough by him to have an entire company dedicated to keeping him captive) pushed him deeper into the detention block. There was a security checkpoint ahead manned by a few agents, and Steve entertained a momentary hope that these men would do something to stop this, but they didn't. They only silently admitted the retinue of guards through the doors without logging their entrance. It was almost like they were expecting him, and not just as a prisoner. As a prisoner who was meant to be kept a secret.

Beyond the doors and down the hall, Rumlow and the rest of the STRIKE Team were waiting. They were all bruised, beaten, and enraged. Rollins and Ramirez stalked forward to grab Steve's arms, hauling him roughly away from the other soldiers and toward their own. Rumlow was grinding his teeth hard enough for his jaw to flex as Steve was stopped in front of him. He didn't hold back, ramming his fist into Steve's cheek. Before Steve even had a second to recover from the blow, the STRIKE commander kicked his wounded knee. He couldn't restrain his hoarse cry of agony at that, slumping down in the others' holds. Rumlow smiled wanly, towering over him and panting like this excited him. It probably did, the sadistic bastard. "The first of many, Cap," he snarled.

Steve struggled to hang onto consciousness, the pain in his leg nearly overwhelming his hold on awareness. His knee utterly refused to bear his weight, and Rollins and Ramirez ended up dragging him after Rumlow. He swallowed down the unpleasantness of nausea and dizziness and fought for some semblance of his normal composure because he sure as hell wasn't going to surrender that easy. He managed to straighten to more or less his full height, limping still but fixing his gait slightly to not put so much weight on his bad leg. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He was not going down without a fight. _Never._

They seemed to walk forever through the detention block, past offices and interrogation rooms and cells, until they reached a place that was deeper in the interior, away from the traffic that could have been in the less secure areas. Obviously they didn't want to be interrupted. That didn't bode well. They stopped outside one cell, a large one equipped with a sizeable glass observation window, and Steve felt his heart drop into his stomach. "Should have figured you'd be into this," he said, trying to force some bravado into his voice.

"What did you expect?" Rumlow asked. "Us to grovel at your feet and beg for your forgiveness? For your approval?" He tapped a code into the keypad by the door and pressed his palm to the scanner. The door's locks disengaged and its seal was released with a hydraulic hiss. Rumlow pushed it open and Steve was shoved inside, nearly colliding with the chains and cuffs hanging from the ceiling. Steve righted himself, turning and working with renewed fervor at breaking free. Nothing gave, but he didn't stop. He stood defiantly, not caring one bit if Rumlow saw him struggle. Rumlow's bruised face broke in an amused scowl. "Fuck you, Rogers. You can beg at mine."

"Not happening," Steve snapped. "I thought you said this wasn't personal."

"I lied. I can't stand anyone as self-righteous as you. And I'm a vindictive prick, or so I've been told. Get him down."

Rollins and Ramirez and a few others were right there, pushing on his shoulders hard. Steve didn't give an inch, not even with the guns on him. Obstinately he resisted until Rollins kicked his leg again, and once they broke his stance, they were able to force him to the floor. "Beg, Rogers," he hissed in Steve's ear. "You're a soldier, right? Take orders."

"No," Steve responded. They drove his shoulders down into the cold concrete, and a boot slammed into his head. Steve grimaced, his cheek scraping against the concrete. "Go to hell!"

"We're already there," Rollins said. Ramirez pushed harder, putting all his weight into it. Rollins fisted Steve's hair, holding him at Rumlow's feet. Steve squirmed under the pressure, but he couldn't free himself. The bindings around his wrists were released for a moment, but he could hardly struggle with so much force on his upper body and the weight of a sizeable chunk of the STRIKE Team pushing him down. They had each of his arms so tight, and the second he tried wrenching away, that awful bite of a stun baton hit his spine. It was paralyzing and the pain was damn near blinding. The room blackened and everything spun, time stretching to an excruciating eternity before he slipped into nothingness.

He didn't escape for long. Steve's cheek stung wickedly and unexpectedly, and somehow that was enough to jar him from the numbness that had taken his senses. "Wakey wakey," beckoned Rumlow, and Steve lurched away. His hands were bound above him now, linked at the wrists and connected to a chain that disappeared into the ceiling. He was on his knees, cuffed around the ankles by the same unbreakable metal, and it was magnetically bonded to plates on the floor. Experimentally he pulled on the chains, but they weren't going to break. With his legs incapacitated as they were, there was no way he could stand. The pain from bending his wounded knee and putting his weight upon it was almost unbearable, and he could feel blood underneath his pant leg, seeping down to his toes. They'd taken his boots and socks. Hanging as he was, he was completely exposed.

Rumlow stood over him again. "Ready to beg now, Cap?"

Steve's bruised lips curled in a bit of a grin. "Don't hold your breath." He expected the blow, but it was still jarring. Rumlow's backhand ripped his face to the side, and blood immediately gushed into his mouth from where he'd bitten the fleshy inside of his cheek. Steve righted himself, blinking to focus. "I've been through this before. Aren't you supposed to ask me somethin'?"

"This isn't an interrogation," Rumlow explained. "This is just plain old torture. No reason. No excuse. We're going to beat the shit out of you, Cap. And when it's over, when _I_ decide it's over, we're going to put a bullet in your skull."

"You – you always were a power hungry bastard."

"I'm not even going to bother suggesting that you switch sides. You won't."

"Nope."

Rumlow smirked. "Predictable as fuck."

"So are you." That won him another punch. Steve spat a mouthful of blood to the floor. "What's Pierce after? What are _you _after? How deep does it go, huh?"

Rollins' boot rammed into Steve's back, and he gasped before he could control himself. Rumlow smiled, an anticipatory, feral thing that made his eyes burn. "Pierce got what he was after, and he told us to kill you. He didn't specify how. Or when." He kicked Steve cruelly in the midriff. The strike felt strong enough to bend his ribs. The air was driven from his lungs. "This is what I'm after, Cap. You dead at my feet. All of SHIELD under our control. Fury's gone. There's no one to protect you now." The next kick was harder, damaging bones and muscles already hurt by the fall from the elevator. Rumlow leaned closer. "All those months that I had to spend listening to your boy scout bullshit. Pretending to eat it up. Pretending to care what you think. Pretending to be loyal to you. Fucking honor and bravery and integrity. I could hardly stand it. You owe me this."

"I don't owe you a damn thing."

"Should have let you die in Crimea."

Steve smiled, revealing reddened teeth. "Your mistake."

Rumlow snarled, furious as all hell and prepared to vent what seemed to be months' worth of pent-up rage. He went at Steve with abandon. Steve tried to relax, tried not to struggle (although there wasn't much he could do, anyway), tried to stay calm and cool and unaffected as Rumlow hit him. He kept his teeth gritted together to prevent any sound from escaping him. But Rumlow was an expert at wearing men down. "We're going to make you scream. You're going to beg us to kill you."

"It'll take a while," Steve hoarsely returned.

"Oh, I hope so. You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this." Rumlow raised his fist to punch Steve again, but the sounds of footsteps in the hall beyond stopped him. They'd left the door wide open, like they didn't care if people saw them doing this, and whoever had come stopped just inside it. Rumlow turned. "Well, look who's here."

Steve couldn't see who it was through Rumlow, so he took the moment to gather his wits. He looked down and tried to breathe. He would have to hang on because once they realized that drive was empty… Maybe they'd kill him before they did. _No. They'll figure out I gave it to Nat. I've got to give her more time. Tony can protect her. Tony–_

"Dropping this off. You shouldn't have made such a show. People are asking questions."

"Fuck them," Rumlow snapped. "And fuck you, Barton."

Steve's head snapped up. _No._ Rumlow of course noticed his reaction. He smiled, stepping aside so his prisoner could see. _No. Not this. Oh, God, not this!_ But no matter how hard his heart wanted to deny it, it was true. Clint stood in the doorway holding his shield. His expression was hard and unreadable, his eyes dark and empty. He stared right at Steve, Steve who was bound and bleeding at the mercy of the STRIKE Team. He didn't rush forward to help. He didn't pull the gun from the holster around his thigh and demand Steve be released. He didn't even seem surprised or the least bit upset. He did _nothing_. _No!_

"You're damn lucky I was able to take the shot," Barton said sternly. "Otherwise you'd been in a hell of a lot of trouble right now."

That cold, devastating sense of betrayal twisted his heart even tighter. He couldn't stop the spiteful words from spilling from his mouth. "You son of a bitch," he snarled. He yanked on the chains binding him harder and harder. Barton looked at him dispassionately. "You goddamn son of a bitch!"

"Looks like you hit a nerve," Rumlow said with a cruel laugh. He glanced at Steve knowingly. "You wanted to know how deep it goes. It goes deep."

"Natasha trusted you! I trusted you! How the hell could you do this?" Steve's voice cracked in fury and fear. Whatever secured the chains above his head creaked and moaned as he pulled, the muscles of his arms twisting and bulging, but _nothing came free_. "How could you betray her? You're an Avenger, goddamn it! You're her–"

"Her what?" Barton snapped, narrowing his eyes. "She chose you." Steve's blood turned to ice in his veins. "I'm choosing this. I'm following orders, Captain. But not Fury's. Not anymore. And not yours. I know my place, and it's not staying loyal to a dying cause. And it's sure as shit not staying loyal to you."

"Clint, you can't do this," Steve pleaded. "Please. You can't do this!"

Rumlow's hand shot out and decked him roughly. "Shut up, Rogers. Nobody wants to hear your whining." Steve coughed on the blood that filled his mouth anew, struggling to lift his head. Rollins had a hand on the back of his neck, pushing him down with all of his weight. Two more sets of hands grabbed his shoulders and applied enough force that his wrists nearly cracked. Somebody grabbed his hair and yanked cruelly, lifting his head. "You want to take a crack at him, Barton?" Rumlow gestured to Steve, completely restrained by his men and utterly vulnerable. "After all, he took your place as Fury's go-to guy. And he took Romanoff right out from under you. I think he has it coming, from you of all people. I think he deserves it, and you should be the one who gives it to him. Go on."

Steve jerked helplessly. Clint watched, cold and uncaring, as a hand grabbed Steve's chin and tilted his head back even further so that all he could see was the gray ceiling overhead and the chains running the distance to it. The rough fingers on his jaw shifted lower to strangle him. Now he could barely breathe. And he could do nothing but wait for Clint to hit him, for him to work out his anger and frustration on him just as the others had and would. Just a small part of him irrationally wondered if he didn't deserve it in this case.

But Clint never did. "This isn't what I signed up for," he said. There was a hollow rattle, and Steve realized it was his shield hitting the floor as Barton dropped it.

"It's a perk. Got to take them where you can."

"Then have it. Pierce needs to see me." And with that, he was gone.

"Fucking coward," Rumlow grumbled.

Steve struggled to breathe with the fingers gouging into his throat, struggled to see with the tears in his eyes. He heard boots on concrete, heard the door slamming and sealing shut. Heard the quiet hum of his shield as it was picked up from the floor. "You want him like this?" Rollins asked from behind.

"Nah. Let him struggle. Let him try." The hands restraining him were gone, and Steve sucked in a glorious breath, sagging in his bonds. His moment of reprieve wasn't long-lasting. Rumlow was there, viciously driving the toe of his boot into Steve's belly as he stood over him. He was fixing his arm into the straps of Steve's shield. "Last chance, Cap. You wanna beg for mercy?"

_Mercy._ He could hardly think for the rage and grief he felt. Defeat. Betrayal._ God, help me. _"Would it matter?" he wearily rasped.

Rumlow grunted half a chuckle. "No. Would you do it if it did?"

"No."

"Alright then. Let's see what you like so much about this thing." Rumlow smiled, and Steve had only a second to brace himself as the smooth, powerful surface of his shield came crashing into his face.

* * *

Please don't kill me. You guys know I love Clint to death. I promise I'll make this right!


	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **For those of you who are interested, I started another story entitled "The Road Not Taken" for some Steve-loving that's not so dark or evil. I also posted "Brother", which is a short story featuring Steve and Bucky bromance.

Speaking of dark and evil, warnings aplenty on this chapter for content, including scenes of torture, violence, and language. Again, please read at your own discretion. Poor Steve… I think he bit off more than he could chew with this one.

**TERMINAL FROST**

**9**

It went on and on. They weren't fancy with their torture methods. They didn't need to be. It was a beating, pure and simple, and it was brutal and unrelenting. Captain America's resilience and endurance were no mystery to the STRIKE Team. They'd seen it in the past. They'd seen it in Crimea. They knew exactly how much he could take, and they made him take it. Rumlow hadn't been lying about his anticipation for this; he was by far the most active, the most cruel and engaged. The others got their hits in as well, but Rumlow was tireless, and each punch and kick and vicious insult seemed to enthrall and excite him as much as the last. His true colors were coming out in full force, and they were utterly hideous.

Steve knew he wasn't doing himself any favors by defying, by keeping his mouth shut when Rumlow demanded he scream or beg. But that was what he did. No matter how hard they punched him, he was silent. No matter how cruelly they kicked him, he stayed still. No matter what, he wasn't going let them know how badly he hurt. And every time they wrested a groan or a whimper from him, he clamped down tighter. His teeth were driven hard into his tongue to hold it in. He forced himself to breathe through the pain – _it's only pain, damn it_ – and stay strong. _Stay strong._

_Nat needs me to be strong._

Rumlow hit harder and harder. He was ruthless. His fists were split, and he complained about Steve's thick skin and hard bones and harder head. He was a grotesque picture of evil; maybe that was trite nonsense, but Steve couldn't think of any other way to describe him. He was sweaty and flushed with exertion and excitement. He was wild and unrestrained and his eyes veritably hungered from the challenge of it all. Of making his prisoner suffer. Of trying to get Steve to break, to force him to let loose the scream that was lodged in his throat at long last. He was really getting off on this, and it was disgusting and infuriating and humiliating. Steve wasn't going to feed into his bloodlust, not even the tiniest bit, and he wasn't giving a damn inch. Not even as the seconds stretched to minutes and the minutes to an excruciating hour… _No. Not going to scream. Not going to._

And Steve wouldn't tell Rumlow, not even to taunt him, but he'd faced worse insanity than this, Brushov and the Red Guardian most recently but an entire litany of Nazis and HYDRA madman back during the war. And he could have told Rumlow as those bloodied fists rammed into his chest and face and stomach that he wasn't afraid of him. He wasn't – _I'm not afraid and I've got to stay strong_ – but he was afraid of dying like this, because as the torture went on, he knew it was taking its toll. He could hardly draw a deep breath with his hands bound over his head as they were, but he knew some of his troubles were due to broken ribs. There was blood in his throat, choking him when he held his breath to take a hit. He didn't know if it was from shock or from all the blows he'd taken to the head, but he was having a hard time focusing. He was slipping away. Maybe it would be better if he did.

_No. Nat needs me to be strong. Promised her we'd be together. Promised._

He was becoming increasingly fearful he wasn't going to be able to keep that promise. The only consolation was that he was fairly sure it had been a few hours since they'd captured him and dragged him into this hell. He couldn't be certain; a few times he'd blacked out from a particularly nasty strike to his head (more and more frequently, he was scared to admit), so his assessment could be off. It didn't matter. As long as they were here beating him to death, they weren't out trying to find Natasha. And if staying quiet and keeping Rumlow angry and desperate to conquer him protected her, he'd gladly do it. When the pain turned blinding, slicing straight to his heart and stripping every thought from his brain, that was all that remained. He had to protect her. He had to.

_Be strong. Keep her safe._

"Having a good time, Cap?"

He barely had the strength now to lift his head, so he sagged further forward and spit a bloody mess on Rumlow's boots. "No," he managed. He was starting not to recognize his voice. His ears were ringing and his eyes wouldn't focus on the dark, wrathful form leaning over him. "Should I be?" Rumlow backhanded him, and the world fell away again. He heard them taunting him, insulting him and demeaning him, but he couldn't make sense of the words. Somebody had him by the hair, yanking his head back. Other hands were pushing down on his shoulders until he was fairly certain they tore one, dislocating his arm and probably fracturing his wrist. A boot slammed into his back. They'd focused on that, the sick bastards, because they had seen how he'd suffered when the Red Guardian had hurt him. They'd seen how the doctors had struggled to save his life and restore his fractured spine. They _knew_ he was weak there even weeks after because they'd witnessed firsthand how damaged he'd been. Sick bastards. They weren't strong enough to break it again – _they're not strong enough to break me_ – but that didn't stop them from trying. They tried and they laughed and they growled with frustration when Steve kept his cries in and let his mind check out. Eventually, when they battered a particularly sore spot in his lower back, he faded. The memories were as bad as the pain. The memories…

_Nat, I need you._

He let himself go back, back to when Natasha had taken care of him when he'd been recovering after the fight in Volgograd. The first few days he'd been home had been difficult, and he'd been unable to do anything for himself. He'd seen a side of Natasha in those days that he'd never seen before, a side that seemed to be as new and timid to her as it had been to him. She'd been so gentle, so caring, so giving. The long hours he'd spent suffering with his back locked in spasm after spasm had been made so much more bearable by her embrace, by her soft words of encouragement, by her hands soothing away the knots in his muscles and the pain in his nerves. He could find comfort in that by remembering it now. He did. He let himself go in the love, in the warmth. The long days they'd spent in his bed, in his living room together, talking and watching TV and exploring each other. In getting to know more about each other. In adoring each other. Her hands, tender and supportive as she'd guided him to the kitchen to get lunch, to his bedroom to sleep beside her, to the shower where she'd teased him and tormented him in the best ways imaginable almost as much as she'd helped him wash. She was lying beside him in bed, one arm over his chest, her head propped on her other. She was looking down on him as he slipped his fingers between hers slowly. Her eyes. Her smile, her _real_ smile, and he knew it was his and his alone. Her heart. She was so beautiful. _"You with me, babe?"_

"You with us, princess?"

"He's fucking finished."

Fingers pressed roughly into his jaw, squeezing painfully tight, and lifted his face. Steve heard himself groan. He couldn't make his eyelids open all the way, and everything was a smear of light and shadow and red. Rumlow had his arms folded over his shirt. He looked down on Steve in disgust and irritation. "Gotta say, Cap. I'm starting to lose my patience."

He couldn't remember why. For a moment, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten to be where he was. Unfortunately, that didn't last. One of the other STRIKE members stood beside Rumlow, and he sneered as he kicked Steve right in the crotch. Steve almost forgot to swallow down his cry. Almost. He managed to jab his teeth into his lower lip at the last second hard enough to draw fresh blood. He struggled through the pain, letting his anger fuel his strength and resistance. "Not sure that I care," he slurred.

"You should care," Rumlow corrected, "because this isn't ending until you break. You know that."

Steve gritted his teeth. Everything was rapidly dissolving. His brutalized body was just a throbbing source of misery, but he could ignore it. He could. "Won't," he grunted around halting breath.

"Why the hell not? There's nothing to prove now, Cap. Scream. Beg me to end it. Beg me to shoot you."

"No."

Rumlow pulled his handgun from his holster and jabbed it into Steve's forehead. His finger was tight on the trigger. "I want to see the great Captain America pleading with me. Come on. I promise it'll be a quick end if you do."

Steve pulled on the restraints, even with his damaged shoulder and wrists. At least when he'd faced death in the past he'd been able to fight. This was enraging, frustrating, and belittling. Part of him wanted it to be over now, particularly if his death was inevitable, but the stronger part of him knew it was only a matter of time before Pierce discovered he'd lied about the USB drive. He didn't know what would be better in that case. If they killed him now, they'd have no link to the data. But they'd figure out he'd given it to Natasha; Pierce was smart, and it was logical. If they let him live and wasted time interrogating him, that could only protect Natasha further, give her more of a chance to escape to Tony. He had so little control over anything at this point, but he felt like he had control over that. Furthermore, submitting to these monsters was unbearable. "You're a lyin' bastard," he swore, his eyes flashing in defiance. "_Never._"

Rumlow's jaw twitched like he was grinding his teeth. He crouched in front of Steve, and the gun slipped down his captive's face until it was pressed to his lips. "I don't think you understand me," he hissed close to Steve's cheek. "Nobody knows you're here. _Nobody_. I can keep you down here forever if I want. My own personal toy. Every time something pisses me off, you know, gets under my skin? I can come down and work out my frustrations. You have no idea how much bullshit I have to take. You want me taking all of it out on you?"

Steve struggled to turn his head away from the gun, but he couldn't, not with so many people holding him still. He didn't want to chance opening his mouth to answer. Rumlow's eyes glinted, knowing exactly what it was Steve feared and feasting off it. "Huh? You want that?" Hands shoved him closer, and boots dug into the bleeding welts on his back. "You want that, Rogers?"

Steve lost it. He pulled as hard as he could with strength he didn't know he still had, and the restraints actually gave. It wasn't much; the brackets holding the chains at the ceiling bent, and the length extended just a couple of inches. But it was enough to startle Rumlow, and he fell back, his eyes widening and betraying that he was _still_ afraid of Steve. That was enough to stoke the fires of Steve's resistance, and he pulled harder and harder, feeling the metal bend, feeling it buckle, and praying it was ripping loose of the ceiling.

It didn't. And his moment of triumph was short-lived. The STRIKE Team was on him, holding him back, beating him senseless. "You piece of shit," Rumlow snarled, and he smacked Steve across the face with the gun.

"Kill him," Ramirez offered. "He's not gonna break. Just get it over with."

"No," Rumlow snapped. "No chance in hell he gets off that easy."

"But our orders–"

"Fuck our orders," Rumlow snapped, and he turned furious eyes on his team members as if daring them to question him.

"No," Rollins roughly said. His patience was spent. "Fuck this. You want him to scream? I'll make him scream." Steve tried to see Rollins, but he couldn't. A few others grabbed the chains and loosened them further. Before Steve could even register that he should fight, they yanked the chains down and him down with them until his shoulders were on the floor. They pulled toward the front of the room in some sort of twisted game of tug of war, stretching his arms out as far as they could. Steve struggled wildly, his heart furiously pumping, his breath coming in rattling, rapid pants. Panic left him shaking. He couldn't protect himself. And he couldn't see behind him. He couldn't–

"No!" he cried out as hands grabbed his hips and pulled him back. He heard the crackle of a stun baton charging up. "No! _No!_" His shout escalated into a sharp, short cry as the baton was jabbed into the section of his back they'd been intent on brutalizing, and the pain was completely excruciating. The air was sucked from his lungs and his voice died on him, which he vaguely thought was good because that meant he couldn't scream. The burning hell washing over him went on for an eternity. Eventually the agony was gone, but his mind was sluggish in realizing it. His body was too, little aftershocks from the electrocution still jolting over him. He managed to regain enough awareness to feel that baton being poked into his flesh.

"Which would you prefer, Rogers?" Rumlow asked. Rollins dragged the baton lower and lower, under his belt and the waistband of his jeans. Steve jerked, tears filling his eyes. "You want it down your throat or up your–"

"What's going on here?"

The question made everyone stop. Steve almost choked on his relief, lifting his head from the floor despite the hands pushing him down and looking toward the door. He didn't think he'd ever be so glad to see Pierce. The older man stood there, still dressed in his nice gray suit, eyeing the scene before him in distaste. His gaze narrowed as he waited for an answer. Clint was with him, standing to the side. His eyes flicked briefly to the state Steve was in, bloodied and beaten and held down as he was, and for the shortest second Steve thought he saw worry and terror – the driving desire to _help_ – flash in his eyes. If it was there, it was gone in a blink, and the archer's face was stony once more.

Rollins moved from behind Steve, and Rumlow stepped away. Still, there was no way to escape because nearly every gun in the room was immediately pointed at him. Steve squirmed despite that, yanking his bonds closer to his chest, shrugging off the hands on his arms and back, and leaning up from the floor. Pierce's eyes roamed over the STRIKE Team, and they were all silent, like they'd been caught doing something wrong. Steve could only hope. He could barely shake off his terror, barely make his heart slow and his breaths come. He was trembling.

Pierce's sharp gaze finally settled on him. He sighed and raised his eyebrows as he stepped in the room. He slid his hands into the pockets of his pants. "You weren't authorized to take Captain Rogers prisoner," he said to Rumlow.

Rumlow straightened to his full height. It was hard to tell if he was daunted by the cool words. "Sir." That was all he said, because there was no excuse and no explanation.

Pierce spared the STRIKE commander a glance, and the silence that came over the room was stiff and unpleasant. It was as though he was allowing the unspoken threat of some sort of disciplinary action to loom over his men. Steve wondered if it was just for show, and if it was, was it for his benefit or theirs? Pierce stepped closer. Not close enough that Steve could reach him. Not close enough to the mess of blood painting the floor. It was as if he was removed from this. Above it. Like he didn't control it or have a hand in creating it. Steve was battered by such a storm of anger and horror and fear that all he wanted to do was wipe that smug look off of Pierce's face. And shake some goddamn sense into Barton. "Well, it's just as well, I guess." Pierce's expression tightened in expertly controlled anger and blatant disappointment. "Captain, it seems you and I need to have another discussion."

Steve managed to get his breathing under control enough to speak, but it wasn't easy. "We don't have anything to talk about."

"I disagree." That seemed to embolden the SHIELD agents around him to restrain him again, which they did with renewed fervor. Steve growled in the back of his throat in frustration as he was pushed onto the floor and the chains around his wrists were pulled tight. He couldn't look up now, once more utterly vulnerable, and cold shivers raced up and down his body. The sound of Pierce's shoes on the floor was thunderous, despite the roar of his pulse between his ears. A second later the black leather was right in front of his nose. Steve jerked, trying to move away, but Rumlow tightened his grip on his hair. "I have to admit, Captain. I didn't peg you for a liar."

"Funny. That's exactly what I thought you were," Steve returned through gritted teeth. Rumlow yanked hard on his hair, and the gun was against his temple.

"This drive you gave me." Pierce dropped it on the floor right in front of Steve. It clattered uselessly against the concrete. "It's empty."

"Yep."

"Your attitude is not going to help you," Pierce admonished firmly. He must have nodded to Rumlow, because the next thing Steve knew he was being hauled onto his knees again. The room spun nauseatingly for a moment as Steve struggled to focus. "I want to know where the data from the _Lemurian Star _is," Pierce said, looking down dispassionately on his captive.

Steve shook his head. "Don't know what you're talking about."

He expected to be hit for that. Belted across the face or struck in the chest or worse. But he wasn't. He expected this to be the beginning of it now. Now that Pierce had discovered his duplicity, this was when the true test would begin. This was when they'd go at him with a purpose, break him to learn what they needed to know. He'd tensed in anticipation, waiting for it to start, but it never did. Pierce only glared at him, his arms folded across his chest. "Alright, Captain. You wanted to know what Project: Insight is. I think it's time we showed you."

* * *

None of the men surrounding him, not Pierce or Clint or Rumlow or any of the STRIKE Team, seemed one bit disturbed by the fact they were dragging him in the sad state he was in through the Triskelion in plain view of anyone they passed. What was more upsetting than that was the fact that the people they passed didn't seem to care, either. Hardly any of them even looked twice. Steve wasn't in much of a condition to struggle now, as beaten and hobbled as he was, but if even one tech or soldier or SHIELD agent had looked his way with just the slightest inclination to help him, he would have fought with everything he had left. _It goes deep._ That was what Rumlow had said. The corruption, the _evil_, ran deep, and if people weren't actively involved, they sure as hell seemed blissfully ignorant at best or ambivalent and complacent at worst. It was horrifying.

They took Steve to the elevator, where he was pushed to his knees, flanked by Rumlow and Rollins. Clint had his sidearm out, and he was nonchalantly holding it close enough to Steve for the muzzle of the gun to be against the throbbing pulse point under Steve's jaw. They'd rebound his arms behind him, and his dislocated shoulder was on fire. His leg was a miserable mess of blood and shattered bone and raw nerve endings, and kneeling was torture in and of itself. But Steve refused to tremble, keeping his breathing under control and his mind focused. Pierce commanded they be taken to the Insight Bay. He shook his head in regret. "You have no idea how much trouble you've caused, Captain."

There was a snarky answer on the tip of Steve's tongue, but he bit it back. He said nothing, did nothing. Clint's gun was too close to his neck to chance it, although he didn't think they would kill him now. Not when they needed him. Pierce sighed as the elevator descended. "You know, I wasn't lying about my father. He really did admire you. I was just five years old when he was off in the war, and when he came back, he used to tell me stories about Captain America leading the American troops to victory. But even with you there, a super soldier fighting on their side, so many men died. So much… wasted." Pierce's eyes were a little glazed, and he heaved another long breath. "You know how many people died in World War II?"

Steve didn't answer. Apparently he was supposed to, because Rumlow smacked him rather roughly upside the head. "Answer the goddamn question."

Steve's skull wracked from the blow. He swallowed thickly, trying to fight through the dizziness. Rumlow looked ready to belt him again, but Pierce shot him a sideways glance and he stopped himself. "Doesn't matter. Over sixty million. Sixty _million._ Soldiers. Civilians. Innocents. The Holocaust alone was decimating. The war was the single bloodiest conflict in human history, and you lived through it. Fought through it. Let me ask you." Pierce stepped to the front of the elevator and gazed down on his prisoner. "If you'd had the chance to stop that, to prevent all of that death and violence and disease and suffering… Would you have done it?" Steve blinked, his eyes stubbornly refusing to focus. The elevator was below ground, but he couldn't see beyond Pierce's towering form. "I want an answer this time."

Another hand wove its way through his hair tightly, painfully tightly, and he realized it was Clint. The gun pressed harder into the soft flesh of his throat. The feel of Clint threatening him like this was enough to jolt a response from his lips. "Yes."

"That's the start of it, Captain. How far would you have gone? What would you have sacrificed?" Steve grimaced. He didn't want to be goaded into this argument, whatever its point was. He didn't have it in him for mind games. "Would you have destroyed Germany before the first shot in Poland was ever fired? Would you have bombed Japan before they bombed Pearl Harbor? What if you'd had a way to figure out which men would become Nazis years before they did? What if you could know who would be good and who would be evil?" Pierce raised an eyebrow. "What if you could have saved the lives of sixty million by sacrificing a few million? Would you have done it?"

Steve still didn't answer. He didn't have one, at least not an easy one. War was truly hell. Pierce was right. He had lived through it, killed men, lost so many friends, suffered and sacrificed his own life. So many men had left to defend their countries, and so many hadn't come home. And so many civilians had lost their lives as well. The devastation had been widely spread and deeply felt. But if Pierce was asking him if he'd murder or imprison men based on what they _might _do… Or if he'd destroy an entire country or race because of a chance that it might one day be the basis of conflict… Pierce grunted, offering up a small smile. "It's a pity the point is moot. The technology didn't exist back then." His smile turned somewhat whimsical.

The elevator reached its destination. The doors opened, and Pierce stepped out with his aides and a few members of the STRIKE Team. Steve was pulled to his feet and pushed forward at gun point, Clint's grip on one elbow tight and Rumlow's grasp on his other overly harsh. They drove him after Pierce, and he staggered and stumbled when his beaten form failed him. They stood him beside the Secretary, who was appreciatively sweeping his eyes around. "Well, it sure as hell exists now."

Before them was a huge, cavernous, sprawling bay that stretched on for maybe a mile. It housed three helicarriers, each supported by gigantic struts and construction platforms that towered over everything around them. Steve felt awe wash over him, prickling his gooseflesh, and it was followed by chilly fear. Each helicarrier was massive, fitted with four engines that looked sleek, powerful, and newly designed. They were amply equipped with guns and cannons, the best and most potent technology could produce and money could buy. Cranes lifted supplies, quinjets, munitions, and other aircraft to the flight decks. There were hundreds of people working everywhere: engineers welding at the hulls, techs laboring over circuits and computer terminals, flight crews preparing their equipment, SHIELD agents overseeing the efforts. Steve knew right away that these helicarriers were almost ready to fly. The size and breadth of this was simply staggering. Amazing. _Horrifying._ This had grown, been designed, developed, and realized, right under their noses, and they hadn't known a _thing_ about it.

Pierce looked disgustingly pleased. "This is Project: Insight," he announced proudly, "three next generation helicarriers synced to a global network of targeting satellites. The carriers are designed to maintain constant suborbital flight." They started walking as Pierce explained, Steve's captors keeping a tight grip on him as they forced him to maintain pace with the Secretary. Thankfully, Pierce seemed more interested in taking an ambling stroll than a brisk inspection, because Steve could barely keep up. "That's a feat made possible by your friend Stark, in case you're interested. These new repulsor engines are significantly more efficient than our old turbines." Steve glanced up at the darkened circle that marked the engine, wondering if Tony had known for what his input had been used. He sincerely hoped not. They dragged him closer beneath the carrier labeled IN-01. "The helicarriers are fast enough to transport a sizeable army, complete with air support and a full armament of cutting edge weaponry, anywhere around the globe. But the hope is, Captain, that they'll never need to." Pierce gestured upward toward an array of guns affixed to the belly of the helicarrier. "Our precision long-range guns can eliminate a thousand hostiles a minute. And the satellites can read a terrorist's DNA before he even steps foot outside his safe house. Can you imagine the significance of that? Our ability to pre-emptively attack our enemies has increased a thousand fold thanks to the link between these helicarriers and our satellite network, a link which was developed and beta-tested by WorldCom."

Steve wasn't sure what to think of this. If he hadn't been taken prisoner and beaten, this might not have been so upsetting. Who the hell was he kidding. "I was right," he muttered disdainfully. "This really is about striking first."

Pierce smiled wanly. "I've already told you not to be so naïve. Project: Insight is the future of world security. With these helicarriers, we can bring about a new world order."

"Right. A new world order where you're holding a gun to everyone on earth and calling it protection."

"I'm not even calling it that." The gloves were off, it seemed.

"That's why you murdered Nick Fury? He wouldn't go along with this."

Pierce grunted a little chuckle. "I guess I couldn't fool you with my story about Nick's betrayal."

"Not enough to make me believe you."

"I want to show you something. Come with me." Pierce walked further beneath the helicarrier. Steve didn't follow until Rumlow nudged him rather forcefully with his gun. He nearly tripped and fell, but he managed to keep his feet beneath them. The others hung back a little, but they were tense, watching him with angry, hawkish eyes, Clint included. The traitor seemed ready to pounce at any moment. "You see right there?" Pierce's voice drew his attention. The older man pointed upward to a glass structure on the bottom of the helicarrier. It was half a sphere bulging from the belly of the beast made of shining glass and reinforced steel. "That's the satellite uplink server room. Inside there dozens of server blades, each working with the Insight satellites to coordinate the carrier's targeting systems. That drive you stole from the _Lemurian Star_ contains the algorithm developed by WorldCom to connect each carrier with the satellite system. Without it, we can't launch."

Steve felt his strength starting to slip. "Gotta say you're not convincing me to help you by telling me this."

"Oh, I can convince you. But I'd rather do it without another round of you going through what you just went through." Pierce cocked his head, appraising Steve evenly. "Maybe next time nobody will be there to stop them." A chill crawled its way up Steve's spine from the small of his back. Pierce paused and let that very real threat sink in. "This is the future, Captain. The next stage of war. I meant what I said before about our common enemies. Disorder and chaos. How long until another attack like 9/11 occurs? How long until a dirty bomb destroys London or an EMP brings Chicago to its knees? I'll ask you again: if you'd been able to prevent World War II, would you have done it?"

"Not if it meant this," Steve returned without a shred of doubt in his voice. "This isn't freedom. This is fear."

"Who said anything about freedom? This is the way things are. Freedom is a thing of the past. And I hate to say it but you're still living in it if you think holding out against me is going to stop us." Pierce came closer, like what he was about to say was terribly private. "The world is changing, Captain, and we can't go back. None of us. Not even you."

Steve was repulsed by all of this, but he struggled not to show it. "What are you saying?"

"I'm going to offer this chance to you. Once and only once, make no mistake. There are those among us who would prefer to see you killed for all the trouble you've caused us. Me, I'm a man who understands the worth of assets. The value of irreplaceable resources. And you're a resource, Captain. An extremely valuable one. There have been countless attempts to recreate you, but none of succeeded. That makes you worth the risk."

"What risk?" And then Steve understood. "You want me to join you?" He could hardly believe he was hearing this. "You ordered the STRIKE Team to kill me at least twice."

"That was before fate or destiny or whatever you want to call it landed you right here, like this, in front of me and completely at my mercy." Steve stiffened. He tried to hide his reaction, but he didn't succeed. Pierce's eyes glimmered in knowing arrogance. "Faced with torture and execution, maybe you might be more open to persuasion. To seeing some common sense. I know you're smart enough to realize that there's no way out for you. Are you more loyal than wise, though? You want to throw your lot in with the dying crowd like Nick Fury did? I can be civil. I can even be forgiving if I stand to gain from it." Steve looked down. For some reason the weight of the pain seemed so much worse. "I can be forgiving, Captain, but do not test me. I can be ruthless as well."

"I know," Steve gritted out.

"No, you don't. You have no idea how ruthless I can be." Steve looked down, watching the blood smear from his bare feet to the cold concrete beneath them. He was low and lost. The enormity of what he was facing was stark before him. Pierce was right and he damn well knew it. There was no way out. _No way out. _"Captain America and everything he symbolizes is dead. But you can be so much more if you… realign your values. Fight for those in power. We could use a man of your skill on our side, a soldier in our war. The best soldier in history _winning_ our war."

Steve stood as tall as he could. "Go to hell," he hissed, "and take your goddamn offer with you."

Pierce's eyes darkened murderously, though his face betrayed nothing. He'd actually thought Steve would have turned and taken his proposal. _Never._ "You know what we'll do to you to find out what we need to know. I want that drive back, and I don't care who I have to hurt or kill to get it."

"I won't talk."

"Not even if it would spare Agent Romanoff's life?" Steve's heart skipped a beat. Pierce's smile was nothing short of derogatory. "Did you give her the drive? She seems like a logical choice, maybe even the only choice."

Now it came to it. He was going to have to lie, and he prayed he had the strength and fortitude to be convincing. "No."

Pierce didn't believe him. "Did you give it to her?" he repeated, slowly and carefully.

"Why the hell would I do that? She was the logical choice, so _no_."

"Then where is it?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"What if I were to promise you that Agent Romanoff's life will be spared if you cooperate?" Pierce said. "What if I told you that she'll be left alone, that she'd be _safe_?"

As much as he wanted that, as much as he was _dying_ for it and desperate to believe it was possible, he couldn't take this offer, either. He couldn't trade the safety of the world like this, no matter how much he loved her. And he knew Natasha wouldn't want him to. This was the end result of the gamble he'd made. He'd bought her a few hours to get to New York, to get to Stark and do _something_ to stop SHIELD. And he'd paid for it with his life. That was how it would end, and he couldn't go back. "No."

Pierce was losing his patience. "You wanted to negotiate before. It's obvious she means quite a lot to you. I give you my word that we'll bring her in without harming her. I give you my word, Captain."

"Your word doesn't mean anything to me."

"Did you give it to her? Did you?"

Steve narrowed his eyes and kept his face lax and expressionless. "No."

Pierce stared at him, trying to read him and judge him. Steve did his best to remain as aloof and unwavering as possible. He'd stared down men like this before. Men worse than this. At least, he hoped so. Finally Pierce raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "You're making this harder on yourself." He said that like he was reminding a child to whom he was doling out discipline and punishment.

Steve gritted his teeth. "Do you think I care?"

Pierce looked extremely disappointed. That was all it took, that single glance of disapproval, and the STRIKE Team was back, grabbing at him. The Secretary appraised Rumlow and Barton evenly. "Find her. If she has the drive, take it back and kill her." Steve pulled away, panic electrifying him. Some part of him still tethered to rational thought made him hold his tongue; if he said anything now, begged them to leave her alone, it would only confirm that she had the USB drive. It would only betray himself and her. He would have to trust that she– "And if she doesn't have it, bring her back. We can use her against him."

That freed his anger, and his rage trampled any sense of logic. "Don't touch her!" He struggled in earnest now, letting all of his anger free that he'd tried to keep contained since he'd surrendered himself. "You bastard! She doesn't know anything! _She doesn't have it!_"

Pierce turned. "Take him back down. We're done here."

Steve wasn't done by a longshot. He wrenched away from the men holding him, shouldering one in the chest and kicking another. He charged forward, moving with shocking speed and power despite his wounds, and plowed straight into Clint. They both went down hard. The surge of energy, of strength and defiance, was like a rush of power to his battered bones and bruised muscles, and he pulled hard on the cuffs. The metal finally gave, _finally_, and he yanked his arms around to ball his fists into Barton's combat vest. "If you hurt her, so help me…" He couldn't finish, the rage making his throat tight. He stared down into Clint's face, into the other man's eyes. This man that he'd once thought to be friendly and trustworthy and good. This man that at one point he'd trusted to follow his orders, to save the city. To save his life. Steve felt betrayed on such a fundamental level, in a way he'd never felt before. "You'll rot in hell for this."

He never got to do anything else than threaten Clint. He'd thrown away whatever minute chance for escape he might have had. A half a dozen hands grabbed him by the remains of his shirt, yanking him off Barton's form. One of the larger STRIKE agents wrapped an arm around his neck. He still fought, fought with everything he had. He managed to elbow the guy in the belly, dislodging his choke hold, and delivered two quick punches with his undamaged left arm to the men surrounding him. He turned to run.

There was a flash of black and silver. _The Winter Soldier_. He stalked toward Steve's staggering form from behind their group. Steve's eyes widened, and he backpedaled. His destroyed left leg immediately failed him with the motion, and he stumbled. The Winter Soldier was _right there_, and the metal arm caught him right across the face with enough force to lift him and spin him in the air. He landed hard on his right side. There he lay, gasping for breath with the harsh lights and stark shadows of the Insight Bay swirling in a nauseating, draining circle around him. He weakly tried to roll to his back to get the pressure off of his flank, but before he could coordinate his body in that seemingly simple motion, a boot slammed into his belly and hooked under his ribs and did it for him.

The heavy foot then drove down into his throat. Steve barely got his hands under it to push back before it crushed his windpipe. He choked, kicking vainly. Through the thundering hum of his heart, he heard Pierce. "You have your orders, Agent Barton. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No, sir."

"Then go. Hunt her down."

Steve grimaced, struggling for every breath through his constricted throat. "No," he grunted. "Clint, don't! Clint!" Clint turned, Rumlow with him, and they and most of the STRIKE Team walked quickly back toward the elevators. They didn't need to contain the prisoner anymore. The Winter Soldier was there. Steve pushed up with all of his strength, but it wasn't enough to free himself. "You're wasting your time!" he growled at Pierce with the little air he had left in his body. "I wasn't stupid enough to give it to her!"

Whether or not Pierce believed his lie was irrelevant. "I like to cover my bases," Pierce said. His eyes flicked to the Winter Soldier, and he nodded.

Steve barely had a chance to move his gaze back to the dark threat above him before that metal hand balled into a fist and rammed down into his face. His head snapped back into the concrete hard enough to finally shred his hold on consciousness. He caught a glimpse of brown hair and blue eyes and Bucky's face – _Bucky?_ – before blackness at long last took him down.

* * *

Steve was pretty sure he was being dragged somewhere. Pretty sure. Things were really messed up in his head now. Through the fog of unconsciousness, wisps of things, tendrils of memories and fleeting emotions, were grabbing at him. He hurt badly. Were they still beating him? _"Sometimes I think you like getting hit."_

_"I had him on the ropes."_

He tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't work. His tongue was leaden inside it and his lips were bloody and numb and his voice was gone, trapped as a gurgle in his throat.

_"This isn't payback, is it?"_

_"Now why would I do that."_

He struggled to grab something, but he couldn't. His arms wouldn't work right, either. He realized it was because they were tied behind his back. Again. He blinked tears from his eyes, the floor cold and hard beneath his chest and chin as he slid along it. He squirmed, groaning uselessly, struggling even more uselessly.

_"Quit it. You're makin' it worse."_

_"You don't have to do that. It's fi–"_

_"You need to stop fighting, Stevie. You need to stop!"_

He drifted. Awareness was too tenuous, too stubborn to stay with him, slick in his fingers and he couldn't hold onto it. He knew he needed to fight now. No matter what, he needed to stay strong. To lie. To protect Natasha. God, he loved her. He needed to fight for her. He needed to fight!

_"The thing is you don't have to. I'm with you till the end of the line, pal."_

"Wake up."

The harsh demand cut through the haze, and Steve jerked. His eyes snapped opened to see Pierce standing over him again. Any trace of civility was gone from his gaze. Rollins was beside him, his finger poised on the trigger of his rifle, staring down at Steve in hatred and fury. Steve gasped out a halting breath, swallowing the burn of bile and the tang of blood, drawing a shuddering breath as deep into his chest as his damaged muscles and bones could allow. He was back on his knees, his wrists bound above his head again. He closed his eyes, sighing slowly. "I guess this is where you get ruthless, right," he weakly said with as much bravado as he could muster.

Pierce wasn't amused. "I don't have time for this, Captain. Where is the USB drive?"

"Dunno."

"Did you give it to Romanoff?"

"No."

"Where is she? Where was she going?"

"I don't know."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

_"Where?"_

"Rogers, Steven G. 37337566."

Pierce's eyes flashed. Steve dropped his chin to his chest as he waited to be hit. He prayed for the strength to survive. He prayed for Sam to protect Natasha and for God to protect both of them. He prayed Natasha would forgive him for breaking his promise to her. He wasn't walking away from this. He wasn't.

But the blow never came. He realized there was someone behind him. Someone strong who exuded something very dark and very twisted. _The Winter Soldier. _He chanced looking up. Pierce walked away from him and sat in a metal chair that had been brought into the room. He crossed his legs at the knee and stared at Steve evenly. "I've deployed quite a few resources to see Project: Insight launch. The man you fought in Algiers and on the causeway yesterday… He's like you. Valuable. Irreplaceable. The world calls him the Winter Soldier, I've heard. Ominous, I have to say." He grunted a fake laugh. "You know what I call him?" Pierce smiled smugly. "The Asset."

Steve stiffened. The hand in his hair now was metal, and it was tight. So goddamn tight. Every muscle in his body turned taut with terror and barely restrained panic. Pierce was pleased with his reaction. "He's a real marvel. The perfect warrior. The perfect assassin. A killer, in every sense of the word. No compassion. No doubt. Nothing that even remotely makes him human. A gun, and my finger is on the trigger." The Winter Soldier's fingers pulled harder and harder until Steve was certain another yank would rip his scalp. "A man who's not a man anymore. A machine. He really doesn't need a name. At one point he had one, but he doesn't know it. Not anymore. You might, though."

_What?_

Pierce smiled cruelly. "Yes. I think you might know him, if I'm not mistaken."

_No._

Now it didn't matter if it hurt. He had to know. It was like that niggling sense of familiarity that had been bothering him since the fight on the train exploded into a scream, and he couldn't stay still. He couldn't ignore it. He turned, fighting against the restraints and the hand in his hair and the pain. He turned and he _looked_.

"No." The faint whisper came from his torn lips. He hadn't thought to speak. His mind was lost. _Lost._ "No…" Those eyes, empty and deadened. That face, framed in messy brown hair. The unshaven jaw, strong and clenched hard. _No, no, no. _That wasn't… It couldn't be… It wasn't possible! Bucky was dead. Bucky was dead! _No!_ "Bucky?"

There was absolutely _no_ recognition in Bucky's eyes. _None._

The horror churning in Steve's stomach nearly made him vomit. And the pain in his heart was unbearable. His mind was gone, adrift in a sea of denial and memory and shock so strong he couldn't form a single coherent thought. How. When. Who and what and why. None of that mattered. Time slowed to a standstill, and he was trapped in the moment, in this _awful_ moment when the full brunt of the truth became completely irrefutable. This man – this man who'd murdered Sitwell and Fury and who'd tried to kill him – this man who'd shot Natasha – this man was Bucky.

Steve choked on part of a sob and sagged, all the strength, all the _fight_, leaving him on a shuddering breath. _Oh, God. Please, not this… Not this!_

The chair scraped on the floor slightly. Pierce rose to his feet, straightening his suit. "It's funny how things work out, isn't it?" he said. His gaze shifted to the Winter Soldier. "Make him talk."

Steve was hardly aware as Pierce strolled from the room. He was hardly aware, sinking down deep into despair, as Bucky shifted, letting his hair loose so that his head dropped limply to his chest. He was hardly aware as Bucky stood in front of him.

_Please, somebody help me… Nat, please… Please!_

"Bucky," he whispered. He lifted teary eyes to his friend – his brother who'd taken care of him and been there for him and loved him as if they were flesh and blood – and stared hard and deep. That face was so familiar. So often it had been bright with laughter and affection and loyalty. So often it had been graced with a wide, knowing grin. Bucky's face. But not. _The Winter Soldier._ Desperation made Steve's head pound. "Bucky, listen," he said. The words came fast, tumbling over each other and harsh with panic. "Please listen to me. Listen to me! You know me. It's Steve, Buck. It's Steve. You know me. You know–"

Bucky hit him hard across the face with his metal fist, ripping Steve's head to the side and his heart seemingly out of his chest. "Bucky," Steve gasped, nearly gagging on the blood flooding his mouth. That hand struck again, decking him just as roughly in the other direction. "Bucky, no. Don't…" Bucky grabbed Steve's right arm and twisted and twisted, bearing his teeth with the effort. Bones bent. Skin tore. "Bucky," he begged. "Don't! It's Steve! _Don't!_"

The Winter Soldier started breaking him. Steve started screaming.


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Happy early Halloween, everyone! Sorry for the delay. Life has been crazy of late.

Given all the awesome announcements Marvel has made over the last week or so, I have some of my own (that aren't nearly so awesome, but whatever :-)). I'm planning on writing a sequel to this story that will run through _Avengers: Age of Ultron_ and one after that that will run through _Captain America: Civil War_. Somehow this little exercise of seeing if Steve and Natasha would work together as a couple has morphed into a saga. I already have some plans based on the _Age of Ultron_ trailer and the rumors circulating. But what this also means is I will probably want to see _Age of Ultron_ before I begin writing the sequel to this story. If I do that, what it practically means is there may be something of a gap between when I finish "Terminal Frost" and begin our next adventure. Just a warning :-).

Anyway, we are about halfway done with this tale. Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing!

**TERMINAL FROST**

**10**

The racket of a semi-trailer roaring down the highway woke Natasha from her restless sleep. She jerked forward, her eyes snapping open and her hand tightening immediately on the trigger of the gun at her side. It took her a moment to remember where she was and what had happened. And when she did and glanced around and found herself safe, she tucked the weapon back down and dared to take a breath.

Steve had surrendered himself to the STRIKE Team six hours ago. Since then, she and Sam hadn't made the progress for which she'd hoped. It wasn't for lack of trying. They'd managed to steal a car not long after running from Sam's house, though it had taken some time to put enough distance between them and the STRIKE Team where they'd felt safe enough to do it. And getting out of DC had been a cat and mouse game of sorts. Any doubts that SHIELD wasn't looking for her dissipated quickly enough when she noticed the enhanced security everywhere. DC Metro cops had flooded the streets, guarding the major thoroughfares like hawks circling prey. Natasha had gotten out of tougher situations than this, and she knew well that the key to escaping a manhunt was prodigious patience. So she and Sam avoided the obvious routes, sticking to less populated areas and roads. It was slower and more roundabout, but safer. When they saw the cops patrolling the streets, they considered dumping the car and going on foot, finding a bus or a train. She knew well how SHIELD operated, so she could anticipate how they would attempt to shut down the city. Metro transit was too risky. Still, their patience and circuitous path proved to be the right course, and after a few long, tense, and frustrating hours, they'd escaped DC.

They'd headed north, again avoiding the major expressways and sticking to the back roads as much as possible. It felt like they were creeping at the rate they were going, and it was damn difficult to stick to it. Natasha rode in the passenger seat of the sedan they'd taken, barely able to think about anything other than Steve. Sam had been quiet and stiff beside her, his eyes on the rearview mirror to watch behind them nearly as much as they were on the road before them. He was worried and not doing a damn thing to hide it. She didn't know him all that well (at all, to be honest), but she could see that he was scared for Steve, too. "He'll get out," Sam had said once as they'd snaked their way farther north than necessary to give Baltimore a wide berth. "He'll find us. He had a plan."

Though she hadn't said otherwise, Natasha wasn't sure of that. Not that Steve didn't have a plan or know what he was doing, but that SHIELD would let him escape. Steve was many things (overly noble and loyal to a fault among them), but stupid he was not. He'd taken a risk, gambled his own safety, to give Natasha a chance to escape. She knew that. And she knew he'd been acutely aware of what was at stake when he'd left them to draw the STRIKE Team away. She was sure he hadn't trusted SHIELD enough to turn himself over to them and hope they'd let him go when they discovered he didn't have the drive on him. He'd had some sort of way to buy Sam and Natasha time. But if the cost had been his life…

Natasha clenched her hand over her pants pocket. The USB stick was in there still, and she breathed a small sigh of relief. It felt like she was carrying the weight of the world. Literally. _"Take this to Stark_. _Don't let them get their hands on it no matter what. You hear me? No matter what. Don't come for me until you get this to Tony."_ Those had been orders, plain as day. Orders from Captain America. Orders from her partner. _"This is the only way. The only way to keep you and that drive safe. That's the only thing that matters."_

The anger came. Who was he to do this? Who was he to decide what mattered? To decide whose life was more important? She wasn't used to this kind of pain, to this crippling worry, but in all honesty, she should have been. He'd done this before. He'd made sacrifices like this for her before. _"I love you. And I'll be okay. I promise."_ Natasha closed her eyes against the sting of tears. She was better than this. Better than her fear and her grief and her worry. Steve knew what he was doing. He'd made the right choice, the logical choice, no matter how difficult it'd been for him. They all would have been arrested then and there if he hadn't surrendered himself. She had to trust him as her partner as she used to without all this added trauma of her emotions. She had to separate how much she loved and needed him from the mission, and the mission was to get that USB drive to Stark before SHIELD got its hands on it. This was truly the first time she _had_ to do that, to pull her heart back and put it in a cage that she now despised and feared. She needed that cold distance, that objective apathy, that willingness to do whatever it took to see her directives fulfilled. She needed to be Black Widow again, not Steve Rogers' lover.

She wasn't sure she could be.

The driver's door opened. Natasha snapped from her thoughts, tightening her hand on the gun again, but it was Sam. He slid into the driver's seat, his hair and clothes wet with drizzle from outside. Natasha glanced at the clock in the dashboard of the car. It was almost lunchtime, and as though it was angry for being neglected, her stomach rumbled loudly. She hadn't had anything to eat since the afternoon before.

Sam seemed to anticipate that. He handed Natasha a gray plastic bag, and there were sandwiches and chips and a couple bottles of Gatorade in it. "How's the leg?" he asked, glancing at her wounded thigh. They'd pulled over at a gas station and taken a minute a couple of hours ago to redress the bullet hole in fresh bandages. Running around on it had hurt, but it wasn't anything she couldn't take.

"It's fine," she said, maybe more curtly than she intended. Sam had done nothing but help. She was grateful, but it was so much easier to hide everything behind a veil of detachment than face how afraid she was. She pulled a bottle of Gatorade from the bag and drank half of it before she even tasted it. "Did you get it?"

Sam had drained his bottle in a few seemingly gigantic gulps. "Yeah." He reached into another bag and pulled out a disposable smart phone. They were parked outside of a Walmart somewhere northwest of Baltimore in the suburbs. Stopping again had been a risk, but they had to take it. Sam was already working on getting the phone out of the packaging. "Hopefully this thing comes charged, but I bought a car charger, just in case. You know his number?"

"Yes." She hoped so, at any rate. She didn't dare turn on her own cell phone to look up Stark's phone number, not with SHIELD likely monitoring all of the major mobile service carriers. Her SHIELD-issued phone she'd activated and then tossed out the window somewhere south of DC while they'd been meandering around the city outskirts trying to hide their tracks. It might have distracted SHIELD for a bit if Pierce was searching for them, but she doubted it would do much more than that.

After finally getting the new phone free of the ridiculous amount of plastic encasing it, Sam powered it on. "We're in business," he murmured gratefully. "Here. You deal with this. I'm going to get us moving."

Natasha didn't argue, stuffing the rest of her sandwich in her mouth as she took the phone from him. She chewed and swallowed. It tasted like nothing. Nothing felt good or sure or _anything_. _Get to Stark. Then we can get Steve out of there._ As Sam turned the car back on, the wipers lazily moving across the rain-slicked windshield, she allowed herself a moment of grief. She didn't really have a choice, because it came randomly and fast and hard. Her hands shook. Her eyes burned. Her heart swelled miserably in her chest until it felt like it was lodged in her throat. God, she was scared.

"They won't kill him," Sam softly said. He glanced her way as he maneuvered them back onto a busier divided highway. They'd only spent a few panicked hours together, but already Natasha had discovered Sam to be rather good at reading people. And he was of a good stock. He was kind-hearted, stalwart, smart, and capable. She reminded her of Steve in a lot of ways. No wonder they'd hit it off so well and so quickly. "They won't. They need him."

"I know," she responded softly once she found her voice. Sam meant what he said as a source of comfort, but she didn't find any solace in it. Truthfully, as much as the idea made her positively sick with grief and anger, she was afraid they wouldn't kill Steve. She was afraid of what they'd do to him to get that drive back. She knew Steve would never betray that he'd given it to her. But that only meant they'd try harder to break him. She couldn't bear to think about it. SHIELD had its hands in some dirty things, bad and immoral things if she was honest with herself. If the good people there – like Fury and Hill and Clint and herself – hadn't been afraid to get their hands dirty to stop evil, what would the truly evil people do to stop good? _Rumlow. Pierce._

_The Winter Soldier._

And Clint. She'd left him behind. He was trapped in the Triskelion. By now, he could be a prisoner, too. If SHIELD had been taken over by Pierce's faction, there was no telling what could happen to him. Natasha couldn't bear to even contemplate any of it. She grabbed the prepaid card from the bag and focused on getting the phone working. A few minutes later as Sam drove them through the rainy day away from Baltimore, she was dialing in Stark's number. After the Battle of New York, he'd given each of the Avengers his private line, which he claimed no one else used. He called it some sort of emergency Avengers channel. To her knowledge, at least, none of them had ever dialed it. At least she, Clint, and Steve hadn't. She knew Steve had kept up some sort of contact with Stark, but she didn't think they were what anyone would call close. Friends, maybe. Still, Steve was right about Tony. He hated SHIELD, distrusted it and openly berated it. He was their best hope for help. So she hit the "SEND" button on the phone, hoping and praying that this paid off.

It rang and rang. _Come on,_ Natasha thought, growing more and more worried with each passing second that Stark didn't answer. It would be much easier to make this journey up to New York with Stark's aid. _If he's in even New York._ The guy owned the biggest and most profitable technology company in the world. She knew Stark's mansion in Malibu had been destroyed a few months ago during the incident with the Mandarin, but Stark Industries' headquarters were still out in California. Maybe he was there. Really he could be anywhere. The phone was still ringing. _Come on!_

It was useless. "Damn it," Natasha growled, pulling the phone from her ear and ending the call.

"Does that mean he's not there?" Sam asked, glancing over at her.

"I don't know," she answered. "Stark's…" How could one explain Tony Stark to someone who had (and, had circumstances not gone this inexplicable way, probably would have) never met him? He was brilliant, flashy, and eccentric. He was powerful, but had a good heart, and caustic when it suited him (which was all the time, practically). He was rude but loyal, fumbling, reliable in some ways and completely irresponsible in others. He was a walking, talking contradiction. He was… "… flighty."

Sam wasn't pleased. "Great."

Natasha thought for a moment and opened the phone's text messaging program. She quickly typed in a message: _"SHIELD compromised. Need your help. Coming to Tower."_ She hesitated just a moment before sending it. That tense sensation of paranoia was growing worse and worse, even more so now that Steve was gone. She had to take the chance. If Stark knew they needed aid, the odds of them reaching safety were significantly higher.

"Shit," Sam breathed, drawing Natasha's attention. The car slowed. Sam shook his head. "Fucking perfect. Construction?"

Natasha peered along the long line of cars ahead. Most of the road in front of them was at a standstill, red taillights turned into blurry, streaky patterns by the rain on the windshield. She saw brighter blobs of color ahead. Red and blue. "Accident."

"Shit."

"Yeah, we need to get off. Turn around." There was no way they could risk this. An accident meant police, and if they got deeply into the mess of the traffic ahead, there would be no escape. Sam gripped the steering wheel tighter, unnerved and a tad panicked. He flipped on the blinker to move into the right lane, glancing wildly over his shoulder. He pushed their way in, and fortunately no one honked at them. "Easy," Natasha warned quietly. "Don't look desperate."

"You think the cops are watching?" Sam asked nervously, though the tension eased from his form enough for Natasha to notice.

"First rule about going on the run: there's always someone watching," Natasha responded coolly. They inched forward in the traffic a little more, crawling closer to the flashing lights ahead. It was uncomfortable and disconcerting, but there really wasn't a choice. Further ahead there was an intersection and the opportunity to turn right. Sam took Natasha's advice and signaled his next lane change but waited more patiently to squeeze into the adjacent line of cars. They sat silently, tensely, while they slowly made their way to the turn. Every moment felt like one in which they would be discovered. Every moment they were trapped, waiting and waiting. Finally they were able to escape the traffic jam.

Sam sighed in relief, though he still kept checking in the mirror and glancing over his shoulder to see if they were being followed. "Well, this is great. You know the traffic heading north is going to be bad. How are we going to avoid all of it without this taking forever?" She didn't have an answer. Steve couldn't afford for them to spend so much time reaching Manhattan. They were both quiet again, suffering with their unspoken worries. Sam drove them aimlessly around the shopping areas for a few minutes, futilely trying to get his bearings. "That thing have GPS on it? Because I don't know how to get around this."

She found the GPS app on the phone and launched it. She typed in their destination, choosing Grand Central Station as opposed to Stark Tower itself just in case SHIELD was watching. The app was quick to calculate the best route, though she had to alter it to exclude major highways. And then she stopped.

What was it Steve had said? About the USB drive being linked to a bunch of different locations? He'd seen it aboard the _Lemurian Star_, the log of places the drive had been. 39-23'17" North, 075-19'51" West. Her heart speeding in excitement, she canceled the route the computer had calculated and entered in the new coordinates. The place wasn't that far, surprisingly enough. It was only about an hour and a half out of the way. "Change of plans," she declared.

"What?" Sam asked breathlessly. "What do you mean?" She lifted the phone so he could see the screen. "Wheaton, New Jersey? What the hell? What's in Wheaton, New Jersey?"

"Answers."

* * *

It took some convincing to get Sam to agree to this. Frankly, Natasha was hardly certain herself that this was a good plan. This was a detour they didn't have the time (or freedom) to take. Steve had sent them to New York, to Tony, and they needed to get to him. That was what Sam intended to do. He meant to get the drive and Natasha to safety. They'd argued about that, of course, that it wasn't Steve's job to take care of her, so it certainly wasn't Sam's, and if Steve asked Sam to do that sometime during the night she'd been hurt, they both needed to stuff their chauvinistic bullshit and let her make her own decisions. And her decision was to take an hour and go to this place in the backwoods of New Jersey that had something to do with the USB drive. It was bordering on rush hour, anyway, and they had no idea if the path to Manhattan was clear. If SHIELD was anticipating their attempt to reach Stark, getting further north was going to be more and more difficult. Therefore, it seemed like this was as good a time as any to try this. They had a chance to learn _something_ about what was on the drive, and she couldn't pass that up.

She just hoped she was right about this. She was spending the precious time Steve had given her. She hoped to God it would be worth it.

It had stopped raining by the time they reached Wheaton. Sam drove down a quiet road in the woods, following the GPS on the phone. Natasha grew more and more anxious by the moment, not recognizing at all where they were. She was familiar with most of the major SHIELD installations on the East Coast, and to her knowledge, there was nothing out here. They were literally in the middle of nowhere. They continued in uncomfortable silence for another ten minutes or so, the road changing from pavement to gravel, not terribly unkempt but not well marked or maintained, either. Eventually the forest thinned, parting to reveal what looked like some sort of old military base.

Sam slowed the car to a stop outside the fence. Natasha got out as he turned it off, tucking the gun in the waistband of her pants below her sweatshirt and shutting the door behind her. Together she and Sam walked toward the sealed gate. Sam had a confused expression on his face. "What is this place?"

An old, weathered sign was affixed to the top of the fence. White letters proclaimed "CAMP LEHIGH – US ARMY RESTRICTED AREA". Natasha's brow furrowed in confusion. Was it just a coincidence? It had to be. "It's where they developed the super soldier program," she said in soft voice.

Sam looked sufficiently doubtful. "You're kidding. Are you sure?"

"Yeah." She'd seen it in some of the old SSR files Steve had in his apartment. This was where SSR and Doctor Abraham Erskine had gathered candidates from across the country for the controversial and barely funded program. They'd trained them, tested them, evaluated them to find the best fit, the most likely chance for success. And Steve had been the one they'd chosen out of dozens of options. Steve, the scrawny, skinny kid from Brooklyn.

This had to be a mistake, right? What the hell did data from a pirate ship on the other side of the world have to do with an army base from seventy years ago?

Sam scaled the fence without too much trouble. On the other side, he opened the padlock and pulled the gate open with a grunt of effort and screech of rusted metal. Natasha nodded her thanks and stepped inside. The base was dark with the gloomy day, the compacted dirt of the road and paths wet and muddy beneath their feet. Brush left to grow unattended had overrun a lot of the training areas. The buildings that weren't brick had turned gray, covered in faded and peeling paint and one step better than dilapidated. It looked like no one had set foot there in decades. It was so quiet, ghostly almost. As Natasha walked around a corroded flag pole, she looked up and imagined the American flag waving in the breeze. She imagined the voices of drill sergeants, harsh and loud as they directed the recruits. She imagined the thudding of boots on dry earth, the jingling of gear as soldiers ran in formation. And she imagined Steve as she'd seen him at the Smithsonian exhibit, small and thin and nearly crushed under the weight of equipment and a rifle too big for him, wearing the greens of the US Army. Steve was struggling to keep up, and the drill sergeant was screaming at him in ire. Somebody else would have quit given the insurmountable obstacles, but Steve was still running after the company, running and running and _fighting_…

"You sure this has something to do with that drive?" Sam asked, drawing her from her thoughts.

Natasha sighed, subconsciously sticking her hand into her pocket to clench the small device firmly. "Steve has an eidetic memory. If he said these were the coordinates, then they're the coordinates."

They wandered around a moment more, but there was nothing to be seen but shadows and overgrowth and more empty buildings. This base had been abandoned long before USB technology even existed. _What are we doing here? Wasting time?_

"There's nothing. We should go," Sam said. He looked frustrated and disappointed.

Natasha wasn't willing to give up yet. Something – she didn't know what – was bugging her about this place, a cool feeling of dread that was deep in the pit of her stomach. "There has to be something," she murmured, glancing around anew helplessly.

"How long have you and Steve been together?" Sam asked.

Natasha turned and stared at him sharply. "What do you mean by that?"

Sam's expression softened. "He loves you. A lot. I asked him the other day what makes him happy, and you know what he said? You." Natasha felt something cold and miserable wash over her, like a bucket of ice had been dumped on her head. Suddenly this whole thing felt akin to betrayal. Steve was in the hands of SHIELD, and they were doing who knew what to him, and she was out here, on a wild goose chase when she should be finding Stark and planning a rescue. She should be honoring Steve's wishes.

Sam pulled on a locked door to one of the buildings (the barracks it seemed), but it only rattled. He shook his head. "All I'm saying is what I said before." He didn't seem irritated, just discouraged and worried. "He told us to go to New York. We should go. It's all we can do to help him now."

Natasha didn't appreciate the thought process and the guilt and grief it was stirring to life inside her. And she didn't like wasting time arguing about this again. "He also trusts me to make my own decisions. We have to figure out what's on this."

"There's nothing here," Sam said again. "We're wasting time. We need to…" He trailed off, looking over Natasha's shoulder. Stepping around her, he went to a larger building set back some distance from the main thoroughfare of the base.

Natasha followed him, perplexed. "What?"

"I don't know how it is in the army, but in the Air Force, it's against regulations to have munitions stored so close to the barracks." He moved faster, jogging over to the darkened, hulking mass of a structure. Natasha leapt to keep up. She came to stand beside him, and they both looked up the building. "This building shouldn't be here." It was a dome of sorts that extended dozens of yards back. The door was metal and secured with an old lock. "Hold on." Sam disappeared for a moment, heading back to the car. When he returned, it was with the tire iron. He smashed that into the lock a few times. Thankfully, it was rusted enough to give way, and he pulled the door open.

Inside, it was black. They stood at the entrance a moment, wary and wondering. Then Natasha stepped down along a metal staircase. Sam followed. The gray light from outside illuminated what was in front of them enough to see a few pillars flanking the lower level of the building. There was a light switch on one, which Natasha flipped on once they got down there. A second later, overhead lights winked to life, revealing a huge, dusty room filled with desks, chairs, and file cabinets. The walls were painted beige, taupe, and pea green. At the other end of the huge space, a massive logo of a black eagle encircled in gold adorned the vast majority of the wall. Natasha recognized it instantly. "This is SHIELD," she said softly as the two of them wandered deeper into the old room. _Probably where it started,_ she thought as she appraised the old emblem.

"Why would SHIELD have an installation here, out in the middle of nowhere?" Sam asked.

"SSR laid the groundwork for SHIELD during World War II," Natasha answered. "If this was one of the places they were based during the war, it made sense to start from something well established and already secure." _And already secret. _They walked down the rows and rows of idle desks. A hefty layer of dust and dirt coated everything. There were old office supplies in some places, notebooks and pens and staplers, but things had tidied, packed, and put away before they'd been left. Obviously the base had been decommissioned ages ago, and anything of value had been removed.

There were doors lining the sides of the main room, offices and storages places. They wandered to the right and into one that had dusty, frosted windows separating it from the larger room. File cabinets were pressed to the walls in neat, well-organized rows. Above them there were three pictures. "Who are they?" Sam asked.

"The people who founded SHIELD. That's Stark's father," Natasha said to the middle photo. Howard Stark looked young and suave, in the prime of his life. "And General Phillips, Steve's CO during the war." She'd seen his picture in a few of the conference rooms in the Triskelion. She always thought Phillips seemed ornery and world-weary. He probably had been. Natasha's eyes drifted to the last portrait. "And Peggy Carter." Carter was beautiful, raven-haired and pale-skinned with eyes that were sharp and bright. She appeared every bit like the leader she had been. Natasha couldn't make herself look at the picture any longer, pain and shame digging through her heart. That guilt swarmed like a plague of gnats, buzzing and battering her. It was hardly rational, but she felt like she'd betrayed Carter. She'd never even met Carter, so there was no way she owed the other woman anything. But she couldn't shake the feeling that what had happened and what was happening to Steve was her fault. After all, she'd been the one to shoot him. It had been for her sake that he'd gone after Brushov and fought the Red Guardian. And it was for her sake now that he'd handed himself over to their enemies.

_Shut up,_ she seethed to herself as she walked away. This newfound bullshit that was her conscience really aggravated her sometimes. Feeling guilty did nothing. _Black Widow does not feel._ That was what she had been trained to do, fight and kill and complete her mission without hesitation or doubt, and she could still do it. _Black Widow does not…_ No, she loved. She loved far too deeply.

_Shut up!_ This was neither the time nor the place.

She walked down the room a little, passing huge metal bookcases that were empty. Cobwebs blanketed the shelves. She peered down further but saw only more of the same, lonely workstations and useless shelves so coated in dust that it was more than obvious no one had used them in years. No computers. No modern technology, period. It didn't make sense. Steve couldn't have been wrong about the USB drive having something to do with this place, but whatever the relationship was wasn't at all obvious.

But then she felt a burst of cool air from her left. She turned and saw the webs embracing the adjacent bookshelf shimmy and waver in what was definitely a draft from some place behind it. "Sam, look at this."

Sam came closer, his eyes narrowed as he waved a hand in front of the cool air pushing into the room. He crouched to inspect the bottom of the bookshelf. "It'll move. It's on a track."

"Help me." They managed to push their fingers between that rack and the next. Prying deeper, they widened the small gap. Once they had it parted a few inches, they were able to put more effort and weight into it, pushing the heavy bookshelf along the floor with a rattle and the grating sound of grinding metal. It obviously hadn't been moved in a while if its resistance was any indication. A few more seconds of their combined work had the bookshelf pushed far enough over that they could slip past it into the hallway hidden behind it.

"If you're already working in a secret office," Sam said softly, staring at the sealed doors at the end of the short, dark corridor, "why do you need to hide the elevator?"

"Sometimes secrets have secrets." Sam gave a wan look at the blithe comment as she examined the keypad at the elevator door. It was antiquated. For a moment she regretted tossing her SHIELD-issue phone out of the car; it had tools in it that would have made getting past this a snap. But hindsight was twenty-twenty, and she still wasn't sure booting it up would have been a good idea. _Maybe none of this is a good idea._ It was moot now. And she could handle the keypad without tech. "See if one of those desks back there has a letter opener."

Sam tipped his head, puffing out his cheeks with an incredulous breath, but he went out to find what she needed. When he came back, Natasha used the opener to pry the top of the keypad off. She figured whatever security system this was jacked into was probably long disabled since there weren't any alarms going off. "You know what you're doing?" Sam asked as he watched over her shoulder. She gave him a withering look. "Right." He observed her work in silence for a moment. "Never been much for spook shit, but it is pretty cool. And useful."

"Sometimes. But sometimes the old ways are best."

"Steve rubbing off on you?"

_More than you know. _With a few more seconds, Natasha had the keypad hotwired. The doors slid open, and they stepped inside. There was only one button, and it went down. Sam hesitated a second before pressing it. The door closed, and the elevator started to descend. "This is creepy."

She drew a deep breath to steel herself as the elevator slowed to a stop. The double doors opened with a ding, revealing another large, blackened room beyond. The illumination of the elevator hinted at equipment filling the place. They hesitated a moment, sharing a concerned glance, before stepping out. The elevator doors sealed behind them with a gentle clank. As they went deeper into the shadows beyond, an array of lights became visible. It was buttons on a console, red and white and some were flashing. Abruptly the room lights switched on, the sound of fluorescent bulbs charging to life filling the tense silence. Greenish illumination flooded the room, revealing a huge space packed with neatly ordered rows of old computers. Extremely old computers. Natasha had never seen tech like this, tall cases filled with rolls of magnetic tape for data storage. It had to be from the 60's or the 70's, back when building a computer with a fraction of the power of the cell phone in her pocket took an entire room.

There was a central console ahead where those buttons were, and it featured a few larger screens as well as a really old video camera affixed to the center monitor. Sam and Natasha stepped up on the dais where the console was, looking around in surprise and confusion. "The drive couldn't have come from here," Natasha said, trying to make heads or tails of this. "This technology is ancient."

She was forced to reconsider. On the dusty console was a sleek USB hub, the ports glowing blue. It was hardwired into the console. On the side of the device, the manufacturer was stamped in white lettering. WorldCom. That didn't make sense. WorldCom was a telecom contractor for SHIELD, but what would they have to do with this old building? She reached into her pocket and pulled the USB drive free. Sam saw her considering it and came closer. "You sure you want to do this?"

"No," she answered truthfully, "but we've come this far." Tony was an expert hacker and computer programmer. Still, she didn't know if he'd be able to break whatever encryption was on the drive. Booting it up was a definite risk; the computer system here was decades all and definitely predated the internet, so the homing program placed on there by SHIELD probably wouldn't function. But there was no way to be sure. _We need to know what's on here. We need to know what Pierce wants._

_I need to know what Steve surrendered himself to protect._

She pushed the drive into the port. Immediately the machines in the room came to life, buttons and lights flashing everywhere, the tape reels within the computers whirring into motion. They both looked around, surprised at the sheer amount of activity from the once idle equipment. The camera mounted on the main monitor jerked, elevating its lens slightly. On the computer terminal, a prompt appeared accompanied by a computerized voice. "Initiate system?"

Natasha turned, her brow furrowing in surprise. This was like something out of a science fiction movie. Sam glanced around worriedly. "I don't feel good about this," he admitted.

She didn't either, but it was too late to go back now. She leaned over and typed "yes" on the old keyboard. She hesitated again before tapping "ENTER". Once she did, the rows and rows of machines surrounding them moved faster and louder. The camera tilted, turned, and focused on Sam. The large screen was suddenly filled with faint green lines. They were distorted, flickering as though it was only static for a moment, but Natasha realized quickly that it wasn't. It was a _face_ of some sort, grotesque and disturbing with huge, circular glasses. A male voice, nasal and heavily accented, came from the console. It was loaded with distortion, feedback, and an odd echo, but it still sounded disturbingly human. "Wilson, Samuel Thomas. Born 1978." The camera slowly rotated to face Natasha. "Romanoff, Natalia Alianovna. Born 1984."

"This can't be real," Sam breathed, increasingly on edge.

Natasha shook her head. "It's got to be a recording." However, even as she said, she knew that wasn't possible.

"I am not a recording, _fräulein_," the voice responded almost flippantly. "I may not appear to the man I was when your dear captain took me prisoner in 1945, but I am."

_Dear captain…_ "What the hell," Sam breathed. On one of the other monitors, a picture of a small man with a large, round head appeared. He wore spectacles over two beady, closely placed eyes. He was balding in the image, and the image itself looked decades old. Natasha didn't recognize him. Sam clearly didn't, either. "Who are you?"

"My name is Doctor Arnim Zola. I was _Herr_ Schmidt's most trusted advisor and most brilliant scientist," the voice supplied.

"Who's that?" Sam asked, bewildered.

Natasha's mind was racing. _Schmidt. _"The Red Skull," she murmured, alarmed beyond belief. She shook her head, struggling for an explanation to this. "But that's impossible. Steve killed him. He's been dead for years, and so have you."

"Incorrect. Look around you. I have never been more alive." This wasn't real. It couldn't be. The magnetic tapes spun around them, some in concert, some seemingly randomly. It was dizzying. It was _impossible. _"In 1972, I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body. My mind, however, _that _was worth saving on two hundred thousand feet of databank. You are standing in my brain."

The imagery was decidedly unpleasant. "How did you get here?" Sam asked.

Suddenly it made sense. Natasha narrowed her eyes, glancing around the room again. "Operation: Paperclip," she whispered. God, Garanin had been right from the beginning. Right to be afraid. Right to warn her. The shadows in plain sight were the easiest to overlook. Sam looked at her helplessly, not understanding. "After World War II, SHIELD recruited German scientists with strategic value." _Tell me this isn't… It can't be…_

"They thought I could help their cause," the voice explained. "I also helped my own."

_It's not true! _"HYDRA was destroyed with the Red Skull decades ago," Sam insisted. "Captain America defeated you."

"Cut off one head…" The image hideously split on the screen before them into two identical parts. "…and two more shall take its place." The silence that followed was tense with shock and fear. Sam was watching her, waiting for her reaction, waiting to _know_ if this could be true. Natasha had a feeling it was. She didn't know what to say or do or even think, but she had a sinking suspicion that everything Garanin had said was right. And if that was the case, then _this_ – Fury's death and Steve's capture and SHIELD falling apart… It had all been inevitable in a way that was cruel and cutting. That didn't make it easier to accept. "You seem doubtful, Black Widow. Allow me to convince you. Accessing archives."

The monitor to the right of the main one flickered to life, and a slew of images appeared. The first was of a man dressed in a Nazi uniform. It had to be Schmidt. "HYDRA was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom." The images switched to grainy video of HYDRA's troops saluting their leader, thousands and thousands of them. "What we did not realize was if you try to take that freedom, humanity resists." More pictures and videos bombarded them. Images of the Red Skull plastered upon posters. Scenes of battle. And Captain America, leading the Allied troops against the Nazis. "Humanity rallies behind its symbols. Behind its heroes. Still, the war taught us much. We discovered that humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. After the war, SHIELD was founded, and I was recruited." Peggy Carter and Howard Stark appeared. The two of them stood in the very office they had found upstairs with its outdated logo. The other monitor flanking the central one switched on, displaying pictures of Zola as he'd been integrated into SHIELD's resources. "The new HYDRA grew, a beautiful parasite, inside of SHIELD. As the nature of war changed and surged into new frontiers defined by technology, SHIELD's reliance upon that technology quickly became consuming. I positioned myself in an advantageous location within WorldCom, distant enough from my old enemies to engage in my own activities with little threat of discovery."

"That's not–"

"It is possible. SHIELD was desperate enough to get ahead of distant threats that it foolishly ignored the enemies closest to it." There were pictures now of Zola working at computers. Zola working at laboratory benches. Zola with his hands in everything. "For seventy years, HYDRA has been secretly feeding crisis from within SHIELD. Reaping wars." Chaos. Conflicts in the Middle East. In the Balkans. In Asia. The stock market crashing. Riots in the streets. Violence and death and dissension. The major moments in the last seven decades that had shaped and strained and twisted international relations… It was all because of HYDRA. "And when history did not cooperate, it was rewritten."

The Winter Soldier in Dallas in 1963. In Memphis in 1968. In India and Russia and Iran. The murder of foreign dignitaries and financial leaders and men of political influence. Dozens of them over the last fifty years. Black Widow in Budapest. Hawkeye in Afghanistan. _Oh, God…_ "SHIELD would have stopped you," she said, but her voice was meek and uncertain.

"Not when SHIELD itself is a weapon of HYDRA," Zola said. "Not when SHIELD itself is an agent of anarchy." Images of Howard Stark, switching hideously to the identical shot with his eyes and mouth blacked out as though it had been done with marker. Newspaper stories proclaiming "Howard and Maria Stark Die in Car Accident". Fury, shot and killed. Captain America, dead. Steve's face on the cover of a magazine. "The Hero Who Sacrificed Everything". The text was in blaring red, stamped over his face. "HYDRA created a world that is so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to sacrifice its freedom to gain its security." The monitor was filled with surveillance cameras, with biometric scanners, with satellites tracking, cataloging, and storing the whereabouts of every human being on earth. Cell phones and PDAs and GPS systems, all feeding security agencies like SHIELD with personal information. The blind eye of its complacent victims. "Once the purification process is complete, HYDRA's new world order will arise. You lose everything, and we win."

This wasn't happening. HYDRA inside of SHIELD. _HYDRA_. The same HYDRA that had tried to destroy the world during World War II. The same HYDRA that Steve had defeated seventy years ago. "Still in denial?" Zola questioned. "You did not believe that the sacrifice of a single man could stop us, did you?"

Terrified and shaken to her core, Natasha lost her patience. "What's on this drive?"

"The answer to that question is intriguing. But I won't tell you. You should not have come here, Black Widow," Zola said.

"What? Why?"

"I'm afraid I've been stalling. It's too late to escape now. And it's too late to stop what has been put in motion."

"Natasha, we need to go," Sam said stiffly. He back toward the elevator door. "_Now_."

Natasha wasn't prepared to let this go. It felt like the world was ending on top of her, and she had to know why. "What's on this drive?" she demanded again, walking closer to the camera. "What?"

Zola's image wavered. "HYDRA wants Captain America dead, and he will die. This time we will make certain of it," the voice swore. That image of Steve, his SHIELD ID photo, was on the screen again. This time it was his eyes and mouth that had the black marker on them. Blinded and silenced. Crossed off. _Eliminated. _Natasha could barely stand to look at it. "He is incorruptible. The war taught us that, as well. However, you are not. You wish to know what it is you have in your possession? Project: Insight requires insight. Your past dictates your future. And in the end, it's you we want."

A chill wracked its way up Natasha's back. "Me?"

"You, and what Captain America has given you."

_The drive._ Sam had obviously come to the same conclusion. He moved faster than Natasha, Natasha whose mind was falling and falling down into an icy, _useless_ horror. He grabbed the drive and yanked it free of the port. Just as he did, though, the lights in the room went out, and they were plunged into complete darkness.

Natasha could barely breathe. She whirled, but in the utter pitch it was dizzying and disorienting, and panic rose up inside her. She heard Sam's rushed gasps, shallow and almost panicked, beside her. She reached out blindly and grabbed his arm just to assure herself that he was there. "Shit," he whispered. "Now what?"

A loud rattle echoed through the room. Natasha reached for her gun, but in the darkness there was no way to tell where to point it. The noise dissipated for a moment, leaving them gasping and scrambling in the shadows. "Get behind this," Natasha ordered softly, and together they fumbled to hide on the other side of the main console. The rumble came again, and this time there was the distinctive sounds of the elevator moving down the shaft. Natasha gripped the gun tighter, her back pressed to the console. Sam was rigid beside her. It had to be SHIELD. HYDRA. It didn't matter. Their enemies were coming for them, and they were trapped.

This had been a pretty serious mistake.

Eventually the elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Natasha held her breath, straining her ears. There were footsteps, soft and well-trained but not quite silent. Maybe a dozen of them. She had no evidence of it, but she knew it was the STRIKE Team. Who else would Pierce send to bring the USB drive back to them? She hoped Sam realized that they couldn't get that drive, no matter what. She nudged Sam gently, but he had already shifted into a crouch to be ready to attack. The footsteps came deeper into the room. Natasha angled herself around to peer over the top of the console. _Damn it._ The neon green light of a slew of night-vision goggles bobbled on the other side of the room. Her heart started to pound. They couldn't use the darkness to hide. It was only a matter of time before the STRIKE Team found them.

"I know you're here, Romanoff." Rumlow's smug voice cut through the tense and heavy silence. The minute rustling of clothes, the shifting of guns, and the widespread soft thudding of boots suggested the STRIKE Team was fanning out. Searching. "Why don't you just surrender and make this easier on everyone?"

_Like hell._ She didn't care what the odds were. She'd been in situations like this before, and she'd escaped. And Sam wasn't going to be dead weight; he was military, so he knew how to handle himself in a combat situation. They weren't going to go down without a fight. She slipped into that cold place inside her, where her emotions couldn't reach her, and stayed relaxed. She knew how the STRIKE Team fought from the dozens of missions she'd done with them. They were brute force, more muscle than brain, and if they thought they were coming from a position of strength, that would likely make them sloppy. "Come on. We just want that USB drive. You're outnumbered and outgunned. There's no one coming to save you."

They were getting closer now. Rumlow sounded like he was right on the other side of the console in the middle of the room. There was definitely someone else beside him, and the rest of the team seemed further away, probably checking through the rows and rows of databanks. "I think your boyfriend misses you," Rumlow sneered. "Seeing you might make him feel better." _Don't listen._ The cool voice of reason sliced across the storm of fury and fear mounting in her mind. She needed to clamp down on her feelings. "Dumb fuck thinks he can protect you, but he's not going to last. The Winter Soldier's working him over now. Doing a real number on him. There isn't going to be much left by the time he's done. The guy's brutal. A real vicious son of a bitch. Rogers'll break, sure as day." Sam stiffened, and Natasha squeezed her eyes shut. _Oh, God. Steve…_ She should have never let him walk away from her. And she should have told him the truth about Barnes. "You can save him if you just come with us. Don't you want to save him? You don't want his pain and suffering on your pretty conscience, do you?" Rumlow grunted. "But, then, it already is. You shot him in the heart." Natasha stiffened. She could feel Sam's shock and revulsion beside her like it was a potent force battering her. She felt naked, exposed. Afraid. _Don't listen! _"I gotta tell you: for a minute back there in Crimea, I almost thought you were on our side and nobody had told me. You still could be, you know. There's always room for more. And maybe that would finally get it through Rogers' thick skull that you aren't anything but a slut with a gun sold to the highest bidder." Rumlow chuckled. "I guess the sex must have been really good for him to come crawling back to you after what you did. The look on his face if you show up on our side now… Damn, it'd be priceless." He laughed again, but it was tense.

Natasha gritted her teeth. They were coming around the console now. In a minute, they'd find her and Sam. In a minute, any advantage she and Sam had would vanish. Rumlow sighed in frustration at her silence. "Come on, Romanoff. Don't make me come get you."

Natasha attacked. She stood up from behind the console, firing her gun in the direction she thought Rumlow was. Her shot struck true, probably hitting him in his combat vest and failing to do any real damage, but the shock was enough to buy her a second or two. She darted to the left, ignoring the agony in her thigh, and lashed out at the STRIKE agent closest to her. He was surprised by her attack, and she disarmed him easily, snatching his rifle in her hands. She wasted no time, firing blindly ahead of her into the darkness. The muzzle blast from the gun illuminated the room in quick, harsh blinks, not enough to really see anything. She unloaded the magazine relentlessly, hoping to take down as many of them as she could. When the gun was spent, she tossed it and grabbed her handgun anew, diving to the ground to avoid the return fire. She saw the faint outline of Sam, grappling with another of the STRIKE Team while she scrambled for cover. Bullets struck the floor around them, smashing into concrete, and the monitors above them shattered. She had no idea if she'd killed any of them. Hopefully she had.

But there was still no way to see. And they were no closer to the door.

Natasha heard more than saw the knife slice at her. She rolled away, grimacing as fiery pain shot up her leg. She scrambled off the dais and onto the floor, but someone grabbed her ankle, yanking her back. She barely rolled in time to block a strike to her head. An iron grip latched around her wrist with the gun, smashing it against the floor until her fingers went limp with pain. Natasha kicked blindly, immensely relieved at the feeling of her sneakers striking something firm, and crawled away. "Sam?" she called frantically, her gaze darting through the darkness but finding nothing. There was no answer except grunts and the sound of flesh smashing into flesh. She prayed Sam was okay, that he was alive. A whiz through the air alerted her to another attack, and she barely got out of the way of the knife in time. She heard a cry of pain that had to be Sam's, and she kicked again, aiming for the green blur of a pair of night vision goggles. Her foot hit nothing. Growling in increasing terror and frustration, Natasha shouted, "Sam!"

Someone tackled her. She fell hard, her elbows and forearms barely coming forward in time to prevent herself from ramming into the floor. She struggled with expertly placed blows despite her inability to see, a knee to a midriff, a hand around a throat. The heavy form above her grunted in pain, snatching one of her wrists and pinning it. Natasha punched her attacker, her hand striking what she thought was his jaw. She finally succeeded in getting her knee between them, and she flung him over her. Still, she barely had a chance to get onto her knees before a strong pair of arms wrapped around her from behind. She clenched her teeth, struggling like a wildcat and trying to use the form behind her as leverage to spring forward and free herself. She couldn't. This man restraining her had anticipated that maneuver, and held her tighter and tighter.

_No! No!_

The lights suddenly flooded on, and Natasha squeezed her eyes shut and looked away in pain. The STRIKE Team scattered in shock and alarm. Natasha didn't waste this opportunity, sinking her teeth into the arm around her chest. The man behind her grunted, loosening his grip. She spun, digging her fingers into his hand between his thumb and fingers, jabbing painfully at the nerves and muscles until he let go completely. She elbowed him in the chest with hopefully enough force to knock him breathless. It took only a twist and a yank to have him flung over her shoulder. He collided with the back of the central console and slumped.

Natasha scooped up her discarded handgun and spun lithely, pointing it at the head of the agent she'd knocked down. Familiar hazel eyes glared at her. _Oh, no. No, no, no. Please! _"Clint?" she whispered.

Clint said nothing, did nothing, for what felt to be forever. He held her gaze, his eyes empty, _dead_ in a way she'd never seen before. Uncaring. Unapologetic. "Give me the drive, Nat," he ordered evenly.

"Not you," she whispered. Her eyes were wide, and her heart couldn't seem to manage a steady beat. "Not you."

"Give it to me," he ordered. "Now."

This wasn't real. She was delirious. She was dreaming. _This isn't real!_ She heard herself whisper something. "Why?" Did it matter? Did the reasons matter? He'd betrayed her. Her most stalwart supporter, a man who'd rescued her, guided her, protected her, advised her and stood with her… She didn't know him now. She was staring into his eyes, but she didn't see him. There was nothing of the friend she loved, the confidant she trusted, the man who'd brought her into this life. There was nothing! _"Why?"_

"Barton!" Rumlow snapped, and Clint's dead eyes flashed in warning. He moved fast, faster than she could stop in her shocked stupor, knocking her hand aside. A quick twist of his strong, capable fingers into her wrist disarmed her, and now he had the gun at her chest.

Natasha was shivering. She fought hard to keep still, but she couldn't. "Don't make this harder than it has to be," Clint said. The gun was unwavering. "If you surrender now, there's a chance they'll let Rogers live. Rumlow wasn't lying. They're torturing him. And they'll kill him to get what they want."

_No!_

There was no time to even contemplate that. The elevator exploded in a dazzling array of yellow and red and orange. Natasha dropped to her hands and knees with the rush of heat and debris shoving over them. Whatever modicum of coordination that might have existed among the STRIKE Team was completely destroyed as Iron Man, in all of his red and gold glory, levitated into the room through the remains of the elevator doors. He dropped to the floor with a thud, his menacing blue eyes and arc reactor bright in the smoke and flickering lights. His hard glare shifted around the room before finally landing on Natasha. "You rang?"

Natasha gritted her teeth and moved fast, reaching for the gun as Clint reeled in alarm. She heard Sam shout something, heard the distinctive sound of Iron Man's mechanical joints moving and the repulsors charging and firing. She buried everything: the pain, the worry and fear for Steve, the _anger_. She buried it all and fought. She held nothing back as she engaged Clint, delivering fast, hard blows and dizzying feints and powerful counters. If it hadn't been personal before, it was now. He glared at her, meeting her move for move, but if he had the chance to best her, he didn't take it.

And it went on for a few rushed seconds before Iron Man shot down the remains of the STRIKE Team. Stark blasted Rumlow, who had Sam in a chokehold. The bastard fell back into the rows of computers with a ragged cry. Then Stark shot across the room and landed firmly between Clint and Natasha. "What's this? Lover's quarrel?"

The STRIKE Team was struggling to regroup and attack again, a few rounds from a rifle or two clanking uselessly against Tony's armor. Natasha ducked behind Tony, Sam scrambling toward her across the floor. He'd been clipped by a bullet on one arm, and if his stilted movements were any evidence he had bruised or broken ribs. His nose was bleeding. "We need to get out of here!" he cried.

Stark kicked Clint back when the archer actually _attacked _him. "What the hell?" Tony muttered in alarm and worry. He whirled, standing in coverage over Sam and Natasha.

"Stark!" Natasha shouted, grabbing firmly onto Sam's arm. "Light the place up!"

Tony didn't need to be told twice. He fired on the databanks, and Iron Man's powerful weapons made short work of them. Natasha watched in satisfaction for only a moment as Zola – or whatever it had been – was destroyed. "Sam, do you have it?" she gasped, holding tighter to the man beside her. Sam swallowed, watching Iron Man lay waste to the room in awe, before nodding. "Then let's go! Stark!"

Under Tony's protection, the two of them sprinted across the room. The STRIKE Team was floundering, trying to regroup under Iron Man's surprise attack, but it was difficult given parts of the room were burning at this point and now they were the ones who were woefully outgunned. Stark followed Natasha and Sam, laying down a suppressing fire that kept the SHIELD agents hidden behind the intact consoles and machines. At the elevator shaft, he turned to them, opening each arm. "Up?"

Natasha nodded, stepping onto Iron Man's boot and curling an arm around his waist. Sam hesitated for just a second before doing the same. "This is crazy," he whispered. "Holy shit. This is crazy!"

"Welcome to the Avengers," Stark smartly said. "What about Hawkeye? Do I want to know what the hell is going on here?"

Natasha bit her tongue until she tasted blood. She glanced to the mess of flames behind them, the SHIELD agents still alive assembling to give pursuit. Clint was there with Rumlow. "Leave him," she lowly declared. There was hatred in her voice. She didn't make any effort to hide it. "He's chosen his side."

Stark didn't ask, didn't demand an explanation. He fired the rockets in Iron Man's boots and blasted free. He carried them up and away to safety. "Has the world gone to hell?" he asked. It didn't matter if the question was rhetorical, because the answer was a pretty firm and devastating affirmation. The world had gone to hell, and everything – _everyone_ – Natasha needed and loved was in terrible danger. The past was never going to let them go. _Never. _She closed her eyes, buried her face in the cool, hard metal of Iron Man's shoulder, and tried her hardest not to cry.

* * *

_fräulein – _miss (diminutive)  
_Herr_ – Sir (Lord)


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Warnings on this chapter (again) for torture and general unpleasantness. Thanks for reading!

**TERMINAL FROST**

**11**

_The end of the line._

Steve couldn't breathe anymore. He couldn't fight anymore. It hurt. Everything hurt so badly.

_The end of the line. This is it. This is what it means._

"Tell me where the drive is." Bucky. Not Bucky. The Winter Soldier. Harsh and vicious in his ear. A hiss filled with malice and the intent to harm. Pierce was wrong. Natasha had been wrong, too. Maybe the Winter Soldier was a machine, but he did feel. He seemed to feel a hell of a lot. Cold delight in causing pain. Sadistic validation. "Tell me."

Steve whimpered. The pain was overwhelming, crushing. He was broken and bleeding. The Winter Soldier had done this to him. He could barely draw enough air into his lungs to speak, and when he did, it was nothing but a breathy whimper. "Bucky, don't…"

His tormentor had a knife now, and he was stabbing and slicing and cutting. Steve had been tortured before. Once, during the war, he and Bucky had been ambushed and surrounded during a reconnaissance mission to a HYDRA factory in Northern Italy. One look at Bucky's terror (terror over what had happened to him in Azzano only a few short months prior that he'd been trying so adamantly to hide) had been all Steve had needed to make his decision to stay behind and distract them while Bucky had made his escape. _"I can't let them take me, Steve. I can't go through that again."_

"_You won't."_

"_We have to get out of here."_

"_You run. I'll keep 'em busy."_

"_No!"_

"_It's the only way. Find the others. With any luck, I'll only be a few hours behind you."_

"_You fucking crazy?"_

"_Buck–"_

"_Christ, Steve, you can't make me leave you–"_

"Where is the drive?" The Winter Soldier had the knife to his throat now. It was probably an empty threat (_probably_) because they needed him alive for him to talk (_because Bucky won't do that to me_). Steve had no idea how long this had been going on, but no amount of appealing or begging or trying to reach Bucky was making any difference. And the Winter Soldier had a seemingly boundless reserve of patience. He was cruel and exacting. He knew what he was doing with that knife. He knew how to torture. What Steve had faced at the hands of the Nazis that night in Northern Italy had been sloppy and amateurish (God, that was sick) compared to this. The Winter Soldier knew how to hurt, how to cut deeply enough to cause agony and the threat of death but never so deep as to actually kill. He knew a man's anatomy, where to slice and what to break. Vaguely Steve felt like a piece of art, a canvas the Winter Soldier was painting with pain and blood, a lump of flesh he was trying to twist and mold into something he wanted to see. No, that was too dignified for this. That was too– "Where is it?"

"Rogers," he gasped out, fighting to breathe with the blade poking in between his ribs. "St-Steven, Grant. Thr-three seven three…" The air in his lungs and throat ran out, and his voice died.

_"Stop talkin', Stevie,"_ Bucky softly commanded. _"Save your strength."_ Bucky's eyes were soft, his face filled with worry but the shadow of an encouraging smile as he leaned over him. A gentle hand laid over Steve's forehead. _"He's burnin' up, Mrs. Rogers.__ What should we do?"_

_"Get the fever down from his head."_

_ "Hold on, Steve. Help's coming."_

_Nat, help me…_ She couldn't. She needed to stay away, to not come anywhere near this nightmare. Coming here would mean SHIELD won. Coming here would mean she would be hurt like they were hurting him. He couldn't let that happen. He was stronger than the pain. He was stronger than the knife cutting into his body and the glare cutting into his soul. He was stronger than–

"Where is the drive? Where is it?"

Steve screamed. The Winter Soldier had the blade in his flank now, digging and digging deeper and deeper. Steve's wail dissolved into a sob. "Don't," he gasped. "Bucky, please. Please don't do this. Please listen to me."

The knife came free with a spurt of hot red. The blade flashed in the light before pressing to his cheek. "No," the Winter Soldier hissed. His eyes flashed in frustration as he traced the edge of the knife down Steve's face, almost gentle in its motion. Steve forced his eyes open, forced himself to be still despite his terror, forced himself to _look_ into Bucky's eyes. He could picture Bucky so clearly; the image had danced among his dreams and nightmares continually ever since Bucky had fallen from that train in the Swiss Alps. It all flashed before him now. Bucky's smile as they shared a beer they'd swiped from his father. Bucky's laugh as they'd wandered around Coney Island drinking pop and eating peanuts and looking at the dames in their flowery summer dresses. Bucky's encouraging hand as his mother had lain dying. Bucky's hug, firm and true, as he'd left Brooklyn to join the 107th Infantry in Europe. Bucky's body, heavy and hurt against his as he'd hauled the two of them from the burning factory in Azzano. Bucky's hollow gaze, heavily lined with fear that he was trying to hide as the Howling Commandos made camp on a snowy night in Germany. Bucky, at his side, his aim unwavering, his support even more so. Bucky's scream, loud and driving ice into Steve's soul as he'd slipped from Steve's stretching fingers and fell down, down into the wind and snow and ice. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky… Perverted. Twisted. _Gone._

_No!_ "Please, Bucky," Steve whispered. The knife was slipping down his mostly naked body, down over his gasping throat and heaving chest. "Please, Bucky. It's Steve. Steve Rogers. You need to remember. You know me. You've known me your whole life." The words barely came, halting and hitched with agony. It was useless, pointless, and a small, horrified voice in the back of Steve's mind kept telling him this. But he couldn't accept it. He couldn't believe it. Bucky would never do this to him, so whatever Pierce had done to him… Whatever HYDRA had done to him back during the war when he'd been a prisoner in Azzano… Bucky had be alive under the brainwashing. _Bucky had to be._ "You know me, Buck. Look at me. Look me in the eye. You know me. You know–"

The knife went into him again. He wasn't sure where; his body was throbbing, every nerve tormented to beat in an endless, throbbing wave of fire and agony. He heard himself screaming again, screaming until the metal fingers closed about his throat and squeezed. Bucky's face was completely expressionless as Steve gasped for air, as his life's blood puddled on the floor beneath them. "Where is the drive?" The Winter Soldier hissed the words against Steve's cheek. "Where is it? Where is it?"

Steve's brain was ravaged, scraped raw and jumbled, but he held tight. "Kill me… Not gonna… Won't tell you."

"Tell me."

"Rogers, St-Steven. Captain…"

"Tell me!"

"_Shut up now. Come on. What the hell are you thinking, trying to talk like this? You need every breath you got."_

"Bucky, please… Please…" _Please listen to me. Please trust me. Please believe me._

"_Please what? You're the one who keeps getting your ass kicked."_

_Please stop._

He faded away somewhere between the Winter Soldier driving his boot up and into an open wound on his belly and that knife carving into his chest. He closed his eyes, scrambling to hide in that place in between unconsciousness and awareness where he was numb enough not to feel. True oblivion couldn't come for him. The Winter Soldier was too observant and proficient for that, allowing him a reprieve for a moment or two so he could regain strength enough to withstand another blow. The serum was too strong to let him give up.

"_You don't give up, do you, Rogers?"_

"_Nope."_

"_I think that bastard busted your ribs."_

"_Feels that way."_

"_You gotta have more sense than this. You can't keep goin and gettin' yourself involved in every scrape in the city. You're so stupid!"_

"_Couldn't let them hurt her. Couldn't let them…"_

"Natasha," he whispered. The splinters of thoughts and memories jabbing into this mind were ragged, hateful things that wouldn't form into anything coherent. His eyes slipped shut. He tasted blood in his mouth. He felt sick. This was worth it, though. She was safe. She was with Tony and Sam. They'd protect her. And he could still protect her, too. _Don't tell them she has it. Don't tell them where she went. Don't say anything._

"_Be strong, Steve."_

"_Mama, please don't leave me."_ He tasted tears now, warm and salty, as he watched the light and life fade from his mother's blue eyes. He held her hand, frail and cold in his own, as she struggled for her final breaths. He was praying, but it wouldn't make any difference now. God was going to take her from him, and he'd be–

"_You're not alone, sweet boy. James is here to take care of you."_ Lips that were dried to the point of cracking and breaking turned upward in a loving smile. _"You know that, Steve. James will take care of you. I asked him to."_

"_I know that, Mama. I know."_

"You promised," Steve whispered, fighting to stay awake. "You promised…"

"Where's the drive?" The Winter Soldier bore down on him, pushing down on his devastated lower body and crushing him to the floor. He was a dark wraith looming over him, frozen with hatred. Chained to his mission. "Where is it? Answer me!"

Steve could hardly breathe. "You promised me you'd…" He smelled clean air, warm air. He breathed deeply of it, the scent of _home_ dragging him through delirium. Bells ringing. Summer. "You promised…"

"_How was it?"_

"_S'okay. She's next to dad."_

"_I was gonna ask…"_

"Where is it? Who did you give it to?"

"_I know what you're going to say, Buck. It's just…"_

The metal hand was harsh on his throat, driving into the flesh over his jugular and squeezing until there wasn't blood going to his brain. Steve choked, tears filling his eyes. "You will tell me."

"_We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It'll be fun. All you gotta do is just shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash. Come on."_

"_Thank you, Buck, but I can get by on my own."_

"Where is the drive?" The hand slackened so as not to kill him. A part of Steve wished it hadn't. "Where is the drive?"

"Can't… Won't tell you."

"_The thing is… You don't have to. I'm with you til the end of the line, pal."_

_The end of the line._

"You promised me!" Steve cried. He struggled with a sudden surge of energy, pulling back and away even as the Winter Soldier pushed him lower and lower. "Don't you – don't you remember?"

"Shut up," Bucky snarled, but there was something in his eyes now. Not recognition, but something Steve couldn't place. He didn't have time to try. The knife was there again, the tip poking into his cheek, skirting down over his lips and dangerously pressing between them. "You don't talk unless you're answering my question. Where is the drive? Tell me, or I'll gut you."

It was the most the Winter Soldier had said. It sounded like Bucky's voice. Steve couldn't help the anger, the _rage_, burning through him. Rage that Bucky had suffered like this, tortured and turned into a tool of their enemies. Rage that he'd lost his arm, that he'd lost his memories, that he'd lost _himself_. Steve didn't know how this had happened. He had no explanation, but it didn't matter. Bucky was the closest thing he'd ever had to a brother, and he'd been twisted against him. It the deepest and darkest corners of his heart, in the throes of his worst nightmares, _this _had never even been a possibility. The fury pulsing through his body brought strength with it, heat and defiance, and he swallowed down the moan in his throat and the blood in his mouth and made himself stay strong. That _something_ was in the Winter Soldier's eyes now. A weak spot. Vulnerability. _Doubt. _"You know me," Steve insisted again.

The Winter Soldier was angry, frustrated, and irritated, and he clearly had no qualms about venting that on his prisoner. Another harsh slap knocked his head to the side, fracturing his cheek, but Steve still held on. He could see his captor was struggling to maintain his patience, to stay true to his instructions. Steve wasn't sure if the cracks he saw growing in that icy glare were a good or bad thing, but he tried to have some faith. He _had_ to have some faith now. He was the only one who could. "You know me. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. I'm Steve Rogers. You–"

"Shut up!"

Steve didn't. Those cracks were widening. He wasn't imagining it. He went on, chancing retribution, the words slurring as they tumbled from his lips. "We met when we were kids. We lived down the street from each other. We went to school together. We went _everywhere_ together. You used to take care of–"

"_Shut up!"_ This time the Winter Soldier's voice cracked with emotion, and the fist of the metal arm cracked across Steve's face.

Steve almost lost consciousness. Almost. He clung to it, even with his heart straining in his chest to pump the paltry amount of blood still inside his body. Even as his mind struggled to keep to the present, to his own mission. _Protect Natasha. Get Bucky back. _Memories raced uninhibited across his mind, and he let them loose, desperate to findBucky in those cracks in the monster's eyes. "You had three younger sisters: Becca, Katie, and Ruth. They pestered us to no end, but you loved them. Your ma worked as a seamstress and she used to complain all the time when we ripped our clothes. Your pa worked down at the pier, remember, and he brought you home things from faraway places. We – we went to Ebbets Field every summer, even when we were so poor it took us all year to save the money for two tickets. You dated Lizzie Sullivan and Mary Ann Turner and went steady with Kelly O'Donnell our last year in school and you kept trying to set me up with her sister. You worked all summer in 1935 to pay for the medicine I needed because I got sick bad that spring. You were born on March 10th, 1917. You gotta remember, Buck!"

"No, I don't," the Winter Soldier seethed, but his voice wasn't as sure and his eyes were wider.

"Yes, you do." Steve was struck for that. He spat a mouthful of blood to the floor, but more and more kept coming as his body shook with wracking coughs and he struggled to hang on. Everything shifted again. Memories. "You kept pullin' me out of fights an' patchin' me up," he said. His voice was nothing more than a breath of air, halting and hurting. "Even when we were in the war, you kept…"

"_You sure you don't need a medic, Steve? This looks bad. You're bleedin' like a stuck pig or somethin'."_

"_Just stick a bandage on it. I'll be fine."_

"_Christ, you're a stupid punk."_

"_And you never listen to me, you jerk. I'm fine."_

"Please remember, Buck," Steve begged. He could hardly keep his eyes open now, and his lips and tongue weren't working right. Everything was coming out so garbled that he could barely understand what he was saying. "You – you fell. From the train. I tried to get you, I swear I did, but you fell–"

That earned him another punch into his gut. This one wasn't purposeful. It was retaliation. It was driven by emotion, by insecurity, by fear and terror and anger. Steve reeled from it, blood flooding his mouth again from below. He could barely see out of his left eye, and his left ear was ringing and ringing. "You need to remember me," he whimpered. "_Please,_ Buck."

"Stop calling me that," hissed the voice in his ear. _"Stop."_

"You're a brother to me."

"You're _nobody_ to me." Defeat crushed Steve down, and he closed his eyes. That didn't stop the tears. "This is my mission." The metal arm was streaked and smeared with red. "_You _are my mission. My mission. To break you. To make you talk."

"I won't," Steve groaned. "You know I won't. So just – just kill me." At this point, as low and betrayed and hurt as he was, it was almost appealing. _No. Have to fight. Have to. For Nat._ "Won't talk."

The assassin looked down on him like he was surprised by the challenge. Or that he didn't understand. Perhaps it was both, because when he hit Steve again, the blow wasn't as brutal even if it still wrested a miserable wail from Steve's lips. Steve swung limply in his bonds, his knees scraping over the concrete floor. He dropped his chin to his chest, too weary and beaten to fight as the Winter Soldier resumed his torture. _Stay with it. Don't break. Take it and keep breathing. Keep fighting._

_I can't. Please stop…_

"_I'm with you til the end of the line."_

"You promised," Steve whispered.

The Winter Soldier was breathing heavily now, and he stepped back in a mixture of frustration and annoyance. Those cracks were wider. Widening. "I don't know you!" he yelled. He sounded more desperate, like he was trying convince himself. "I don't!"

"You do," Steve moaned. "You know you do."

"No, I don't!" It was becoming circular, impossible and unending, vicious and cruel to both of them. The fissures in the Winter Soldier's exterior were gaping now, but what was beneath was no less terrifying. It was wild and fearful, raw like it hadn't been free in ages and was aching to deny for security's sake. "I don't! I don't! _I don't!_" Steve wanted to argue, but Bucky – the Winter Soldier (he didn't know which anymore) – was hitting him too hard and too fast. He was barely conscious, brutalized beyond the point of struggling, as the maniacal assault went on tied to its frantic chant.

And all of the sudden, this wasn't an interrogation about the whereabouts of Pierce's data anymore. The Winter Soldier was asking his own questions. And all of the sudden, it wasn't about denial anymore. "How do I know you?" Bucky was crouched in front of him now, lifting his head by his hair and forcing Steve to look at him. There was no love in his eyes, no care. He wanted answers. "Who are you? Who?"

"Steve," Steve barely whispered. "Told you. Grew up… Grew up together. Went to war together. You and me."

"That's not possible," Bucky growled in rage. "You're a liar!"

"Friends," Steve gasped. "You and me. Best friends. Love you like… like my brother."

"That's not possible!"

Steve's eyes slipped shut. "You promised me…"

"_What?"_

"You promised me you'd stay with me til the – til the end of the line."

The chains were released. Suddenly Steve was falling. He hit the floor hard, and he blacked out.

* * *

"Get up. I need to get you out of here."

He couldn't.

"On your feet. You need to walk."

He couldn't.

_"Get up!"_

That snapped Steve to some semblance of awareness. He forced his eyes open. He forced himself to focus. The shadow looming over him looked angry and frustrated. Bucky. The Winter Soldier. One and the same. The metal hand reached down toward him, and Steve flinched. But it only grabbed the cuffs around his wrists and hauled him upward. "Stand," he ordered. "Pull."

Steve didn't understand for a second, shocked into a stupor both physically and mentally. Bucky was trying to get his hands out of the cuffs. Even with his enhanced strength and the bionic arm, he wasn't strong enough. However, when Steve put what was left of his strength into it, they managed to overcome the electromagnetic bond holding them together, and Steve was free.

Free, but beaten so badly that he could hardly think and hardly support his own weight, much less fight. Bucky had his shield, and he shoved it toward him. Steve stared at it dumbly, not quite comprehending what was happening. This couldn't be real. He was confused, delirious still, trapped waking nightmare that was gushing into crazy hope. "I can't," he moaned. His shattered left knee failed him, and blood loss dropped him into shock. Limply he went down again.

Bucky's voice answered. He wasn't sure if it was real or not. _"You gotta, Steve. I'm going to get you home. Get you somewhere safe."_

"I can't," he pleaded again.

"Get up now," the Winter Soldier snarled. He reached down, grabbing Steve's left wrist because his right was swollen nearly beyond use, and hauled him less than graciously back onto his feet. Steve blinked tears from his eyes, struggling to ground himself. The pain was brutal, every inch of his lacerated skin wracking with stinging misery, but he fought to get himself above it. He didn't know if he'd gotten through to Bucky or not; the dark stranger wearing the face of his friend in front of him was still cold, distant, and violent. But whatever was happening, for whatever reason, the Winter Soldier was helping him.

It took some effort, but he managed to work his damaged right hand into the straps of his shield. The Winter Soldier had drawn a gun, and he was pressed to the door into the cell. Steve tried to limp after him, but his left leg completely refused to bear his weight. His chest and abdomen were so injured that hobbling was the best he could muster. He supposed he should have been afraid, but his thoughts were scattered and hazy. The Winter Soldier watched him, and something flashed in Bucky's eyes. Fear. Regret. Hatred, both for his victim and himself. He moved, stalking back toward Steve and taking his left arm. He hesitated – this mindless, cold, vicious murderer _hesitated_ – before carefully draping Steve's arm around his own neck and helping him stagger to the door. Steve nearly collapsed in relief. This felt… This was Bucky. Bucky walking him home after he'd been beaten up. Bucky was going to take care of him.

Right?

The Winter Soldier slammed his palm to the scanner beside the door, and it opened. He half walked, half dragged Steve out into the hallway. Steve stumbled, unable to get his feet beneath him and keep them there. The world was spinning, shadows and streaks of light and red. Blood and sweat dripping into his eyes. "Hold on, Stevie." Was he imagining that comforting voice in his ear? Could he trust any of this? "Hold on. I got you. I got you."

There was a sharp crack, a gun going off, and a guard outside the interrogation cell fell to the floor, dead. The Winter Soldier quickly aimed again, methodically and precisely, and two more guards were murdered before they even had a chance to react. He lowered his gun to his side, tightening his grip on Steve's slouching body, and together they shuffled down the corridor. The Winter Soldier seemed to be annoyed with his burden, with Steve's complete dependence on him for support and strength. "Lift your shield," he growled. "Protect yourself."

Steve tried to, but his arm was dislocated and his bones were damaged so the commands from his brain (which were sluggish and poorly coordinated to begin with) never seemed to reach his muscles. "Just… leave me… Run away from them, Buck." He closed his eyes as Bucky left him at a corner to look ahead. He leaned against the wall, surrendering. He wasn't getting away from this. He wanted to tell Bucky to find Natasha, to keep her and the others safe, to stop SHIELD, but he couldn't manage the words. It wasn't smart. This wasn't Bucky (_but it is_) and he couldn't trust him (_but I do_). He couldn't think, and he couldn't speak. There was blood in his throat, welling up from internal injuries, and he could barely breathe around it. "Go."

But the Winter Soldier was back, harshly driving him back around the corner, pinning him against the wall in the shadows, and clasping the metal hand over his mouth to muffle his cry of agony. Fear rushed over Steve, and he struggled feebly, trying to get his shield up between him and his enemy. It took his beleaguered, battered brain a minute to realize that Bucky was protecting him rather than trying to kill him. Another company of SHIELD soldiers was passing. Bucky held him very still, waiting and waiting a few endless seconds for the patrol to walk by them. When they did, he moved like lightning, releasing Steve and whirling. A knife had come free of his combat suit, the same one he'd used on Steve earlier, and he wielded it like a machine once more, cutting throats. Steve could hardly follow the melee because it was so fast and brutal. In a blink, the group of soldiers was dead.

Bucky turned, eyeing him emptily. Steve didn't know what to make of it, the harshness and violence. It had been one thing when it had been poured onto him. Now it was turned onto others in defense of him. He wasn't sure which was more disturbing. He wasn't sure now was the time to be wondering about it, but he was. It took a great deal of effort to anchor himself in this reality, more energy than he had at present, and with a blink he was lost in the dozens of sharp memories pricking their way across the planes of his mind. Bucky in an alley back in Brooklyn, dragging his sorry ass up off the ground and leading him home. Bucky laughing and smiling to make him feel better when he couldn't stop coughing and everything hurt from whatever ailment with which he'd been struck that week. Bucky during the war, hellfire raining all around them, leading the Commandos through it with strength and determination that Steve envied. This wasn't that Bucky. But it was still Bucky, and Bucky was trying to save him.

So he shoved himself up and off the wall, ignoring the blood on the floor from him and the men Bucky had murdered. Bucky grabbed his arm again and returned it to his shoulders. He wrapped his metal arm around Steve's waist, the gun clenched at his side and Steve's shield in front of their chests as they limped as quickly as they could down the corridors of the detention level. In the back of his mind, Steve knew this was foolish. There wasn't going to be an easy escape, probably not an escape at all. This was SHIELD, and it was more than obvious Pierce had the vast majority of it under his command. But somehow that didn't matter. Somehow _none _of it mattered. Not how Bucky had survived that fall. Not whatever had been done to him and whoever had done it. Not that SHIELD wasn't what Steve had thought and if Project: Insight launched, the safety of the entire world was at stake. For a moment, as twisted and inexplicable and unexpected as it was, they were together again, like friends. Brothers facing the world with each other as they always had.

They reached the elevator. The Winter Soldier's jaw was set, his eyes a steely grey as he left Steve against another wall and stalked his prey. Steve struggled to stay conscious, watching as Bucky approached the unsuspecting SHIELD agents. Again, the fight was over in a matter of seconds. He could barely trace Bucky's moves, kicks meant to crush chests, punches that sent men flying to hit the walls and the desk of the security checkpoint, the knife wicked in the bright, fluorescent knife as it sliced and stabbed and came up red. The Winter Soldier was unmerciful and exacting, and he killed them all before a single one managed to raise any alarm.

Steve swallowed the misery in his throat. He limped to Bucky's side, dragging his left leg as best he could, but the pain in his abdomen was too severe and he crumpled with a soft cry. Bucky moved fast, catching him on his way down and hauling him back up and across the blood-slicked tiles of the floor. Dazedly Steve realized they weren't going to chance the elevator. Bucky was pulling and yanking him to the doors beyond it that led to the stairwell.

"I can't," Steve whispered, eyeing the flights of gray, cement steps that led endlessly upward in nauseous terror. Bucky didn't answer. His flesh and blood hand was tight like steel around Steve's wrist, pulling him up and along. Steve stumbled on the first step, nearly pitching forward and planting his face on the stairs, but Bucky was there again, steadying him dispassionately and dragging him back to his feet. They climbed with surprising speed, mostly because Bucky was bearing most of his weight. Suddenly he couldn't keep quiet. He had to know. The questions spilled from his lips, even though he could hardly spare the air in his lungs to speak. "What did they do to you?" No answer. "What – what happened to you, Buck?" No answer. The Winter Soldier said not a thing, like he hadn't heard. Or he was ignoring Steve completely. _A mission of a different kind._ "Buck, talk to me… What did they do to you? Please–"

Steve's voice failed him. His lungs clenched, and the world tipped. They stopped at the top of a riser, and he doubled over, unable to make his broken chest function the way it needed to. He gasped, coughing raggedly, thick rivulets of blood dripping from his trembling lips to the floor. His tortured form bent and he nearly collapsed. Vaguely he wondered if this wasn't irrelevant, if his wounds were so serious that blood loss and shock would overcome the resilience and enhanced healing of the serum. He sagged to the steps, and the Winter Soldier let him, looking up the stairwell and then back down it warily. "Why?" Steve moaned pathetically, his voice a mere rasp. He wasn't sure what he was asking. Why had Bucky survived and come back. Why had he betrayed him. Why was he the Winter Soldier. Why the Winter Soldier had beaten him to within an inch of his life. Why was he doing this to him. For him.

Why was he helping Steve now.

The agony in his heart was palpable, somehow stronger than the pain from the dozens of slash and stab wounds and contusions and broken bones and somehow more threatening to his life. The Winter Soldier looked down on him, still without recognition, without emotion. That fire from before was gone like it had never been there. "Save your breath," he ordered coolly.

That sounded like Bucky, _so much_ like Bucky ordering him around because he was too damn stupid to take care of himself. Steve clung to that thought, losing himself in the anguish pumping through his veins and bleeding from his body, as the Winter Soldier allowed this brief moment of rest. Then he grabbed Steve and pulled him up again forcefully. Steve bit off a cry, tumbling into Bucky's arms, shivering so badly he thought he was going to be sick. "Walk," Bucky ordered, and then they were climbing again.

They didn't have to go much farther, and that was just as well because this exercise in futility had worn Steve down to nothing. He couldn't feel aside from pain. He couldn't think, couldn't perceive anything clearly or sharply beyond the veil of numbness blocking his senses from the world. All he knew was he needed to keep walking, keep climbing, keep breathing. Keep trusting Bucky. Keep believing this was real. _Keep fighting. Keep–_

The fire escape doors were pushed open with a thud, and Bucky pulled him through them. Then they stopped. Steve blinked languidly, trying to understand why. The dark blobs he saw wouldn't settle into distinct forms for what felt like an eternity, but finally they did. The dark blobs were soldiers with their rifles pointed at them. More than a dozen of them. The Winter Soldier could defeat that many. The Winter Soldier could dispense with them, murder them, break free and fight his way out. The Winter Soldier was a weapon, a _machine_, and no one could stop him.

But Bucky wasn't moving. He was still beside Steve, stiff and rigid. He was staring – _frightened_ – at once of the shadows. A gray shadow with sandy brown hair. A weathered old man that was more of a monster than a man. Pierce. "What are you doing?" he asked evenly. The question wasn't directed at Steve. He wasn't even looking at Steve. He was staring – _furiously_ – at Bucky. When his question went unanswered, he asked it again, slower and more forcefully. "What are you doing?"

Bucky said nothing. He was completely motionless, seemingly unreadable. But Steve knew him too well not to see the fear. It was swimming in his eyes. "Your mission was to interrogate the prisoner," Pierce reminded, and now his narrowed gaze flicked to Steve. "This seems rather counterproductive to that, don't you think?" Bucky looked down. It was the most vulnerable thing he'd done. "Don't you think?"

"Yes, sir," Bucky said.

"Then why are you here?" It was alarming how evil and powerful Pierce could sound while asking something so mundane and nonthreatening. "Did the prisoner break? Did you extract the information?"

"No, sir," Bucky said.

Pierce worried his lip in admonishment, settling his hands to his hips. "I'll ask you again," he said after a silent, tense moment. "Why have you failed your assignment?"

Bucky lifted his chin slightly. There were tears in his eyes, glimmering faintly but tears nonetheless. "Because I know him."

Steve nearly choked in relief. Bucky wasn't gone. He wasn't dead. He was under all of it, _in there_ somewhere. Bucky shifted ever so slightly, even as terrified as he was, to stand between Pierce, the soldiers, and Steve. For his own part, Pierce's face was stoic. If he was displeased at all with the situation, it wasn't obvious. He simply stared at Bucky and Steve, at his asset protecting his enemy. Then he shook his head. "Take them."

The soldiers opened fire. Bucky moved fast, catching the first round of bullets on his arm. The bullets clanked uselessly against the metal. More slammed into Steve's shield, and normally it wouldn't have fazed him, but his stance was so poor and weak that the impact knocked him down. Bucky twisted, his eyes wide, frantic. Steve struggled weakly, _seeing_ Bucky and Bucky _seeing _him, but he couldn't do anything. His body was too broken.

Pierce said something low, something in Russian, that Steve couldn't really hear. But Bucky heard it. And Bucky dropped to his knees, dropped like a rock, like all the fight had been sucked from his muscles in a breath. He hit the floor, his hands obediently raised, his fingers threaded together on the back of his head. It was a trigger of some sort. A subliminal command. That was all it took to reduce the world's deadliest weapon to a pliant, useless prisoner.

Steve choked on his breath, realizing he was alone in this now. He tried to roll to his side and scramble away. Terror jolted through him, powering his bruised and beaten limbs, but it was no use. He was too hurt, and without Bucky, he had no hope. Maybe he'd never had any.

It didn't matter. Pierce watched as his men reclaimed their wayward prisoner. Steve hardly struggled as they yanked his shield away, wrenching his hurt arm anew. They pulled him upward onto his knees beside Bucky. Pierce shook his head, as if he couldn't quite believe Steve still had it within him to resist. "You surprise me, Captain. Disarming my weapons like this… I don't know whether to be impressed by you or hate you all the more." Steve gritted his teeth, his vision swimming and his heart pounding in helpless fury. "So he thinks he knows you." Pierce smiled, though he wasn't at all pleased. "Well, let's see what we can do about that."

* * *

Steve was being dragged somewhere again. This time he was more aware, more capable of struggling, which he did in earnest. Seeing some sign of Bucky emerge from the Winter Soldier had revitalized him, given him hope even though they were in a worse situation now than they had been a few minutes ago. The soldiers pulling him grew frustrated with his attempts to fight, earning him numerous more strikes with a stun baton or two in order to subdue him. Still, he wouldn't give up.

Bucky, conversely, wasn't fighting at all. He was walking behind Pierce, his eyes lowered, his stature submissive. He was lost, wincing like he was remembering something. Something awful. A few times Steve had shouted out to him, calling for him to fight, begging him to do something. But he didn't. The control Pierce had over him was deep and impregnable. He was their puppet, their tool. Their weapon. _An asset_. The thought made Steve's heart thunder more and more. After a few minutes of Steve yelling, Pierce lost his patience and turned back to his men. "Shut him up."

Steve scrambled away, but it wasn't much use. There were a dozen guards on him. All it took was a stun baton shoved into his chest to knock him to the floor. While he lay there, dazed and convulsing with the aftershocks, they rebound his hands behind his back and stuffed a gag between his teeth and tightly secured it. He groaned, two burly men on either side of him grabbing him and lifting him by his elbows and carrying him down and deeper into the Triskelion.

They were somewhere below the detention level. Here it was dark, quiet, and a bit dank. It was obviously a secret place, too far from the normal traffic of SHIELD's operations to be discovered. The hallways and rooms were teeming with men, scientists, and techs who all seemed firmly under Pierce's command. They walked through an iron cage and a heavily fortified security post. There was a large room beyond, filled with equipment. Some of it looked older and outdated. There was a tall capsule in one corner, copper-colored and big enough to hold a man. There was a solitary window in its front. It reminded Steve of the machine Howard Stark had built for Project: Rebirth. More disturbing than that, though, was a chair, flanked by monitors and equipment. It sat slightly reclined and had restraints on the arms and legs. Wicked looking implements were attached to it, particularly around the headrest. A group of doctors wearing white lab coats and other men dressed in suits were waiting. The guards dropped Steve near the door, yanking him up to his knees by his hair. Steve regarded the scene with wide, horrified eyes. What the hell was this place?

_Oh, God… He was here. He was here the whole time and I never knew it!_

Pierce said something again, low and in Russian, right into Bucky's ear. Steve didn't catch it, but whatever it was, it made Bucky walk over to the chair and sit in it. Despite how useless it was, Steve squirmed and screamed at him to stop. "Shut the fuck up!" snapped one of the guards beside him, smacking him viciously upside the head. The force of the blow was enough to jostle his tenuous hold on consciousness, and his vision darkened and he drifted a moment.

When he came back to himself, Pierce was standing in front of Bucky. His arms were folded across his chest, like a cross parent addressing a child who'd misbehaved. The image was sickening. "What was your mission?" the man asked slowly, as if he was teaching. Teaching a lesson. Bucky's eyes were empty. Dead again. He didn't answer. Pierce lost his patience and decked him roughly across the face. Steve jerked in anger, clenching his hands into fists behind him. "Answer me. What was your mission?"

"To interrogate the prisoner."

"Why did you fail that mission?"

Bucky blinked, and his lifeless gaze slipped around Pierce to Steve. _Please, Bucky…_ "Because I couldn't hurt him. I know him." He looked back to Pierce, almost like that sad, hurt child looking for acceptance from that angry parent. "Who is he?"

Pierce shook his head. "You met him earlier this week on another assignment," he said. "You were sent to capture or kill him and retrieve an item he carried. That is the information we needed you to obtain from him. We needed to know what he did with the item."

Steve shook his head, even as the fingers in his hair twisted tighter. He wanted to scream and shout – _do something!_ – to tell Bucky not to listen, but he couldn't, not with the array of guns pointed at him. Bucky said nothing, looking lost and confused as his wet eyes dropped to the floor. He seemed young, so tortured that Steve felt his own eyes fill with burning tears. _I let him fall, and they took him. They did this to him. They did this to him right here. Oh, God, what happened to him?_ Bucky looked around the room like he was seeing it for the first time, though it was sadly obvious that he'd been there before. Many times. This equipment… They'd used it to create the Winter Soldier. Eventually his wide, _innocent_ gaze fell to Steve. Steve was shaking in pain and desperation. He tried to call out Bucky's name, but it was only a muffled whine. "I know him," Bucky softly said again.

Pierce sighed and bent down, bracing his hands on his knees. "Your work has been a gift to mankind. It's shaped a century. And I need you to do it again, to follow my orders and see your mission fulfilled." Bucky's eyes narrowed, and his face settled into a hardened scowl like he knew he was being manipulated. Steve prayed he did. "That man?" Pierce pointed at Steve. "He stole something very important to us. _Very _important. Without it, all of our plans for a better future will fail, and all of the hard work you have done will be worth nothing. Society is at the tipping point between order and chaos, and we're going to give it a push." Pierce's gaze never wavered from Bucky's, holding it like that was holding him. "But we can't without what he took from us, so I need you to take it back. Do you understand me?"

Cold panic coiled in the pit of Steve's stomach, and he winced, praying that that didn't mean what he feared it did. However, Pierce's smug glance was all the confirmation necessary. His gloating words were almost too painful to hear. "Agent Romanoff was stupid enough to boot up the drive from the _Lemurian Star_. That was all it took, Captain. One moment of stupidity. All of this pain and suffering of yours… Wasted. We know exactly where she is. We know she's with Stark. And you can't keep her from us any longer." Steve closed his eyes in defeat. Still, he couldn't help but think that maybe it wasn't too late. Pierce was changing the Winter Soldier's mission. He was sending his asset after Natasha and Sam, which meant SHIELD didn't have the drive yet. And if Natasha had made it to Tony, SHIELD would have to contend with Iron Man. That was something. There was still hope.

But there might not be for long. Pierce turned to Bucky again. "I need you to do your part, so I can do mine," he said. "And we can give the world the freedom it deserves." Bucky looked back at Steve, like he didn't understand what his part was, like his eyes and mind were open for the first time in decades. Steve shook his head as much as he could with the hands holding him tight. "Do you understand me?" Pierce asked again. "You will go and hunt down Black Widow and bring me back that drive. Do you understand your mission?"

Bucky seemed like he was breaking from inside, like those cracks were so wide now that there was no stopping the hold these monsters had over him from shattering. His lower lip quivered, and his face crumpled in a last attempt to hold in a sob. "But I know him."

Steve closed his eyes, tears slipping from their corners to streak down the blood on his face. He dropped his chin and sagged as far as the men restraining him would allow. Bucky knew him. _Bucky knew him._

"Prep him." Pierce's order cut through Steve's consuming relief.

One of the doctors looked aghast. "But he's been out of cryo-freeze too long."

"Then wipe him and start over."

_No._ The soldiers crowded the chair on which Bucky was sitting, their guns lifted and ready to fire like they were cornering a wild animal. But Bucky wasn't struggling. His face was still tormented, on the cusp of tears, as the doctors pushed him back into the chair and secured his arms and legs in the restraints. _No, Bucky! Don't let them!_ Steve was yelling again, fighting anew, but it didn't matter. His shouts were too garbled to make any sense, and his body was viciously shoved to the floor and held there. He squirmed in frustration and panic. He couldn't see Bucky now. He couldn't stop this. He couldn't do anything! _No!_

Pierce's goddamn shoes were right in front of his face again. "I guess I was wrong, Captain," he said evenly. "There was still a man underneath the machine." Equipment was clicked into place. Steve shuddered with the sound of it, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing more strength into his battered body. It wasn't enough. Bucky had hurt him too badly for him to help him now. "Will this work on him?"

The question turned Steve's blood to ice water. It was directed at one of the scientists. He couldn't see the other man, but he could hear scuffling and something whirring to life and the man's hesitant, even fearful, response. "I – I don't know, sir. The original notes said the serum that was used was flawed compared to the one they had for the super soldier project, so there's no way to tell, but even if there was a chance, it would take more than what we–"

"I don't care. Do Rogers next," Pierce said, "just in case it could work. At the very least it's punishment for wasting so much of our time. And for costing me Zola." Steve stiffened, trying to swallow down the wail of horror and misery constricting his throat. Pierce stepped into his line of sight, looking down on him in cool confidence. "And at best we can break you yet, Captain. It would be worth it, wouldn't it, to have two of our oldest enemies turned to our cause?" Pierce smiled smugly. "Hail HYDRA."

Now Bucky started to scream. Steve screwed his eyes shut and silently cried for them both while he waited his turn.

* * *

_Natasha._

No way he was going to let them take her. _Never._ Not any of them.

_Peggy. Tony and Bruce and Thor. Sam. Nick Fury. Hill. Phillips and Howard. Dugan and Falsworth and Dernier and Jones and Morita. His mother. His father._

_Bucky._

_Natasha._

_Himself._

He wasn't going to let them take one bit of him.

He fought. He held on.

_Natasha!_

The electricity jolted into his skull with ragged, brutal fingers, clawing at his thoughts, tearing and yanking and _ripping_. He held tight to everything. He held on, and it wasn't strong enough to overcome him. It wasn't strong enough. _You're not taking me!_

They didn't. And when it was over, when he was losing consciousness, he saw the Winter Soldier looming over him. His eyes were dead and empty again, the color of slate and steel, and any hint of familiarity was gone. Destroyed. The cracks for which Steve had worked so hard were sealed like they'd never been there at all. Bucky was _gone_. Steve tried to moan something. Bucky's name. A plea. But it was so garbled and wrecked that even he didn't recognize it. The Winter Soldier hauled him out of the chair and dragged him back to his cell.

Now he was chained to the wall, shivering and suffering, sick to his stomach and struggling to make his lungs breathe and his heart beat and his mind _think_. The procedure hadn't worked on him, but there'd been casualties in the war. There always were. So many casualties. Their machine hadn't destroyed his memories, but it sure as hell had jumbled them up his head. He couldn't figure out exactly what had happened to him, like it was all some sort of foggy, blurry image that randomly and sporadically came into focus. He couldn't remember precisely why he was here. Where _here_ was. _SHIELD._ Why everything hurt so badly. _They torturing you. _What he needed to do. _Stay strong and keep fighting. Don't break._ For whom he was fighting.

_Natasha._

_Bucky._

Something was wrong with Bucky. Someone had hurt him. Bucky had hurt Steve. Someone had changed Bucky. Bucky was gone. _Bucky is the Winter Soldier. _It went around and around, the facts returning slowly and haphazardly and out of order. HYDRA had taken Bucky. HYDRA.

They wouldn't take Natasha, too. They wouldn't.

Steve whimpered, riding out the waves of excruciating agony coursing over his hapless body and battering his even more helpless mind. This was the worst pain he'd ever experienced. Worse than when he'd been shot in the heart. Worse than breaking his back. Worse than freezing alive and worse than being turned into Captain America. His brain was throbbing against the confines of his skull. His skin was crawling. His muscles were cramping and contorting and relaxing without his consent or control. His eyes wouldn't focus. He was bleeding all over. So much blood. Was there any left in him? Vaguely he knew he should be worried, terrified for his life for the amount of red he saw beneath him on the floor, but he couldn't manage anything with the numb haze in his head. And vaguely he knew he needed to fight, to try to escape now that they'd left him alone, but he couldn't manage that, either. Bucky… How many times had they done this to him? Steve had had only a taste of the damage, of the violation. Only a fraction of the abuse and torture Bucky had endured in HYDRA's hands.

HYDRA.

HYDRA was back.

He'd died for nothing. They'd both died for _nothing_.

_Don't think that._ At least he knew who he was fighting now. And it hadn't been for nothing. It wasn't for nothing.

But he was scared. And he wanted… "Nat," Steve whispered. His mouth was so dry, and his tongue kept pushing up against something in it. Something tight between his teeth. Something like cloth, but thicker. He squeezed his eyes shut as another bout of nausea and agony wracked him. Why wasn't his voice right? It didn't matter, he supposed. He couldn't think of what he wanted to say. He couldn't think of he wanted to do. He only knew he wanted her. He needed her. "Nat, please…"

"I have orders from Pierce."

"Nobody told me a damned thing about it."

"He wants the prisoner's mental state evaluated to see if the procedure was successful."

"Doc's already been in. Said it didn't take. Said we needed to do it again. Said we should just leave him in there until he breaks or he dies." Steve stiffened and closed his eyes.

"That's not what I heard. And that was thirty minutes ago. He wants Rogers checked now." The voice was soft, vaguely familiar.

"Pierce wants him as another of his toys ."

"Pierce wants him _alive_ in case they need to use him against Romanoff."

"That's not what _I_ heard." The response was snide and condescending.

There was an annoyed sigh. "Do you want to bother him with this? Pierce isn't exactly in the best of moods with all of the delays."

A pause. Then a gruff, "Make it quick."

Another voice joined the conversation. "Barton's looking for you, Ramirez."

"What about Rogers?"

"It's no problem. He can't fight anymore."

They were right. Steve drifted again. He drifted on his muddled thoughts, on his memories recovering from the injuries done to them. Memories resurfacing. Natasha pressed to his side. He could feel her weight against him like it was a real thing, not a phantom warmth but true and wonderful. Her arm across his chest. The sweet smell of her hair as she tucked her head under his chin. The gentle press of her lips against his throat. "I'm here, Captain." These things were real, weren't they? Not a hallucination. _Real. "Where does it hurt?"_

_"It's fine. I'm okay. It's not so bad."_

_"Ugh. You're a lousy liar."_

_"So you keep telling me."_

_"We need to work on it. You can't be a SHIELD agent and be so awful at lying."_

_"You want to teach Captain America how to lie?"_

_"I want to teach Captain America a lot of things." _She shifted, smiling that coy smile of hers, turning to look into his eyes.

_"That sounds pretty self-serving."_

_"What can I say? I'm selfish. And you're mine."_

_"Always. I love you."_

_"I know. Let me take care of you."_

"Captain?" Steve blinked. There was no one beside him. No one touching him. A figure was kneeling in front of him. He couldn't focus on the face. It was Nat, wasn't it? It had to be. "Captain?"

The gag was gone from his mouth. Soft skin. Blond hair? He thought he knew her. Was it Natasha? He blinked slowly, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Shock from blood loss and what had been done to him refused to release him, playing havoc with his senses. She had to be Natasha. Nat had just been _there_, with him, holding him… There was no moisture in his mouth, so he could barely speak. "Nat?"

"It's Agent Carter, Captain." He couldn't piece the features together – eyes and nose and mouth – to make a face that he could connect with a name. The mouth frowned, and the eyes were teeming with horror. "Oh, my God. What did they do to you?"

Steve closed his own eyes. It was too hard to keep them open, not when the world was spinning so viciously and nothing was right. Everything felt like it was light years away, stretched to infinity and distorted. Fingers pressed around his neck, tender and careful. "Nat… Please… I'm sorry. So sorry. Couldn't stop them. I tried so hard, but they found out, and I–"

"It's Sharon," the voice said quietly and firmly. "Sharon Carter. It's not your fault. Can you look at me? Try. Open your eyes. Come on." He didn't. He couldn't. "Damn it. Here. Drink. Hurry. There isn't much time before they come back." Something plastic was pushed between his sore lips, and water squirted into his mouth. He sucked at it weakly. It tasted like blood, but he swallowed because he was so thirsty. "Easy."

He coughed weakly when he was done, his eyelids fluttering. "Shouldn'ta come…"

"Don't try to talk. Just rest."

"…Hurt you."

"Don't. Rest. We're with you," the voice said again. "You're not alone." The comforting hands were back, carefully wiping his face with something a little damp and coarse. Steve groaned, grimacing as the agony returned without warning. It was harsh and unrelenting. Nerves tortured to the brink burned and writhed, and he leaned into the touch just for the fact that it was something pleasant, something to ground him. "This'll help with the pain a little. It's not much, but it's all I can do." He barely felt the stinging prick in his thigh. Once. Twice.

Steve shuddered. Something that felt warm and wet rushed over him, distancing his mind from his body. He sank into it, trying to breathe. The hands slipped from his face. "No… Don't leave me… Don't let them–"

"We're going to get you out of here," came the voice in his ear, breathy with panic but strong with faith. With a promise. "I have to go now. I have to. But we're not leaving you. You understand me?"

"No, please… Please don't leave me."

"Just hang on. Keep fighting. We're going to get you out of here." The gag was quickly but carefully stuffed back into his mouth and tightened around his face. Steve heaved a sob, shaking his head and stiffening in desperation and betrayal. He pulled on the cuffs around his wrists that held him to the wall, but nothing gave. Nothing gave, and she was leaving him. "Keep fighting. I swear we will get you out, Steve. I promise."

_Natasha! Please don't go! Don't leave me!_

But she was gone. The warmth was gone. The tender touches, the relief, the comfort. Hope. Faith. All of it, gone. And so was he, alone and falling down so deep that nothing could reach him now. Not the memories or the nightmares. Not the pain. Not the Winter Soldier. Not even Natasha. He wasn't sure if he let her go or if they took her away, but it didn't matter. He was lost without her.


	12. Chapter 12

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger_, _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations, depictions of torture)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Happy Veteran's Day! I just want to take a moment to thank all of our veterans who have fought and continue to fight for our freedom and liberty. Your sacrifices are immensely appreciated.

Can things get worse for our heroes? Yes. Yes, they can. Eventually they're going to win, though. I promise.

**TERMINAL FROST**

**12**

It wasn't until she was safely in the shower in a guest suite at Stark Tower that Natasha finally broke down. When she did, when the first sob punched through her mask of calm control, she wilted under the scalding spray and completely let go. It was like an avalanche, a slip of snow at the top of a tall, tall mountain that fell and rolled and built and rapidly grew into a cascade that crushed and suffocated everything in its past. She couldn't stop it, even though she hated herself for these weak, pathetic minutes. She hated herself for standing there, crying, washing the blood and soot away when Steve was in the hands of their enemies being tortured. She hated Clint for betraying her, for doing this to her. How could he? _How?_ She hated Steve for his goddamn _stupid_ fucking heroics that had landed him in this situation, that had driven him to destroy himself again for her sake. She hated Steve for not being there for her, too, for not being at her side like he'd promised. Didn't he know how much she needed him? Then she hated herself more for being angry with him when everything he'd ever done since becoming her partner and her friend and her lover had been to protect her.

And there was so much more. She hated SHIELD for lying to her, for dulling her perception of things so completely and filling her head with so much self-righteous bullshit that she hadn't even _seen_ the evil growing all around her. She hated Fury and Hill and Rumlow and Pierce. She hated and hated and hated, even though she knew it was pointless and futile. She wanted to scream and hurt something as badly as she was hurting. She wanted to go and get Steve out of there, _right now_, even though they weren't ready and they needed to know what was on that drive and they needed a better plan of attack because, even with Iron Man on their side, storming the Triskelion was suicide. She wanted to kill. That was how she'd been trained to deal with emotions like this, with chaos and vulnerability. Take life. Excel at it. Enjoy the power. She wanted _something_ to fill the painful, yearning void in her chest where her heart had been ripped open and was bleeding and bleeding.

Mostly, though, she just wanted to stop crying.

No. More than any of that, she wanted Steve. She wanted him whole and safe, away from these monsters from his past and their present that would do him harm. This was fear unlike anything else she'd ever known. This was pain unlike anything she'd ever experienced. They had to get him out of there. They had to.

Eventually she did stop crying. Eventually she wore herself out and the hot rush of tears abated and the sobs wracking her weary form faded until she was drawing deeper, shaking gulps of air. The water was still as hot and harsh as it had been when she'd come into the spacious shower, like millions of stinging needles pounding against her skin. She leaned against the expensive tile, sagging into the spray, closing her eyes and breathing through the pain. She'd only cried like this once before: the night she'd tried to walk away from Steve only to end up at his apartment. That moment had been wrought with grief and fear and so much regret. But that moment had led to something wonderful, an affirmation of goodness and love. This… This was hungry, teeming with unsatisfied rage that slithered and coiled in her chest like some sort of parasite trying to engrain itself into her, and this wasn't going to lead to anything but more pain.

_Go. Move. You have to save him. You have to!_

She turned the shower off and limped out of it, wrapping herself in a towel. The bathroom was huge, probably as big as Steve's bedroom back home. She stood at the vanity, trying to keep the weight from her hurt leg, tugging a brush through her tangled hair. The mirror was fogged. She didn't wipe it away, didn't want to see what she knew was lurking behind the condensation. Her reflection. Haggard. Lost. _Hurt._ That made her eyes burn, and she teetered on the edge of another break down, hating herself again and hating this goddamn weakness. She'd been low before, battered and abused, but she hadn't felt so helpless. She knew what was different now, of course. Steve's lack of presence at her side was almost a presence in and of itself, sharp and demanding of her attention and syphoning of her strength. God, how many mornings had had she come out of the shower in his apartment to find him standing at the vanity, shaving or brushing his teeth or just waiting for her with a sly smile on his face? All the times they'd talked together, worked together, fought together, made love together… It was this _weight_ on her now, and she could hardly move at all for the pressure driving her down.

She did, though. _Go. You need to get to him. _It took some effort, some long, deep breaths and a few moments of clearing her mind, but she managed to find her calm. She finished getting ready and limped out into the spacious bedroom of the suite Tony had given her to freshen up. She found a set of clothing on her bed. "Agent Romanoff." The soft, British voice made her lurch in surprise, and she swore softly as she whirled, eyeing the gun she'd left too far away on the counter of the bathroom. "I am sorry to startle you."

It was JARVIS. She belatedly recalled that Stark had the AI installed in every room of the Tower. JARVIS was omnipresent in Tony's life, it seemed, and she should have known that from her time undercover as Pepper Potts' assistant. "It's alright," she managed in response.

"Mr. Stark asked me to inform you that he had clothes sent up and regrets that he had to guess your size. There is also a medical kit on the table in the main room. He believed you would rather tend to your injuries yourself, but he is willing to summon a doctor if you wish."

"No," she said curtly, "I can do it."

"As you wish."

The aforementioned clothes were in a neat pile on the bed. She half expected (knowing Stark) something skimpy or revealing, but it was a pair of black capris, a comfortable blue shirt that hugged her form, and a pair of running shoes. She dressed but left the pants off. Then he limped out to the main area, where the medical kit was indeed waiting on one of the expensive-looking coffee tables. She grabbed it, leaning wearily against the couch. She hadn't looked much at the gunshot wound, blocking it from her mind, but now it was pulsing in pain. It took some effort, but she got situated on the couch with her leg propped a bit. She had already peeled the bandage off. The wound was neatly stitched; thankfully none of them had torn during the melee at Camp Lehigh. It looked fairly good, incredibly sore and tender to the touch, but not infected. She was damn lucky.

JARVIS' voice cut through the silence again. "Mr. Wilson is at the door. Shall I let him enter?"

Natasha hesitated a moment, but she couldn't very well send him away even though the thought of company when she was so raw and hurting was pretty unappealing. "Yeah."

A moment later, Sam strolled into the living area. He was freshly showered as well, the multitude of cuts on his face treated. He as well was limping, though it seemed mostly due to a sore chest. He didn't seem at all bothered by her state of relative undress. "Hey," he greeted softly. Despondently.

Natasha looked up from carefully applying antiseptic salve to the entrance wound. "Hi."

An uncomfortable moment of silence followed, Sam watching with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. They still hardly knew each other, so the disquiet of an uncertain friendship forged in traumatic conditions was heavy upon them. Natasha angled herself to try and get more of the antibiotic cream on the exit wound on the back of her lower thigh. It wasn't as easy as it could be. "Here. Can I help?" Natasha looked up at him. He smiled uneasily, raising his hands in a show of appeasement. "If not, it's cool."

"No, it's fine," she answered quietly. She lifted the tube of cream to him. Sam shuffled closer and slowly sat beside her on the couch. He took the cream, applied a little to his fingers, and reached closer. Natasha shifted more to reveal the exit wound to him. She jerked, both in pain and surprise, when he touched her.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"It's not you."

He worked the cream in gently, reaching to the huge medical kit to find some sterile pads and bandages. "What is it then? Besides the obvious, of course." She knew what he was getting at. There was a touch of something in his voice that she read easily. Suspicion. Doubt. He didn't trust her now. After all, why would he? The extent of this nightmare was rapidly becoming clear. The organization for which she worked was hunting them down. And he was only involved in this mess because of his friendship with Steve. But more than that, he'd just learned during the encounter with the STRIKE Team that she'd shot Steve. She supposed Steve hadn't told him that. Why the hell would he?

Natasha swallowed. She didn't know what to say, how to explain herself. She didn't want to. Part of her felt she shouldn't have to because what had happened in Crimea was between her and Steve. It really wasn't Sam's business. But a brusque dismissal, the urge to _close off_ and internalize it all, wasn't part of who she wanted to be. Now more than ever she needed to be the person Steve thought she was. Still, she settled on deflecting, focusing on the surface issues because those were safer and easier to face. "We have to get Steve out of there. Right now." Her voice was nothing more than a whisper.

"I know," Sam answered tensely. There was no comfort to be had in his voice. "But Stark's right. We can't just charge down there, half-cocked. SHIELD's too powerful. We need a plan of attack."

She knew that. The argument she and Stark had shared on the way to New York was only maybe an hour old, but it felt like a lifetime of impatient suffering had elapsed. She'd hastily explained the situation to Tony, that SHIELD had been infiltrated by HYDRA. Stark knew more than most about HYDRA, given his father had been more than instrumental in stopping them during World War II. She'd told Tony about Steve, that he'd sacrificed himself to SHIELD to give Sam and Natasha time to escape. She'd wanted to go immediately to rescue Steve, but Tony had come out against that plan. The logical side of her knew he was right, that an operation like that was going to be difficult at best. Steve was likely being held in the detention level, which was not at all accessible, and SHIELD was not a force with which they should trifle. But her heart wasn't so willing to listen to reason. If Tony had read into why she was so upset with having to wait, why she was so desperate to do this now when the trained soldier inside of her _knew _damn well why they couldn't, he didn't say. He'd only ushered them Sam and her off to take care of themselves while he took the drive and starting working on cracking into it. This was wrong, so _wrong_, to take even a moment for themselves in the face of what Steve was enduring. This was hell.

Sam sighed. "Steve's strong. He'll be okay." Now he was trying to comfort her. Maybe her misery was showing on her face. She had no make-up, and her eyes were red-rimmed. If she looked half as bad as she felt, there was no way he couldn't notice it. "He can take it, whatever it is."

"You don't know what…" She didn't finish. She couldn't. What Rumlow had said… _"The Winter Soldier's working him over now. Doing a real number on him."_ The Winter Soldier. _Barnes._ _"Rogers'll break, as sure as day."_

"What?" Sam prompted.

She couldn't talk about it. "We just need to get him out of there."

"We will," Sam said.

"You don't know what SHIELD is capable of. It's not what we thought." _What I thought. What any of us thought. _"But maybe I was just deluding myself. I was a hired killer for years before I became a SHIELD agent. I did… a lot of really terrible things. So when I first joined SHIELD, I thought I was going straight." Sam unwrapped one of the pads and pressed it over the entrance wound. Without his asking, she held it down as he worked to cover the back of her leg. She chewed the inside of her lip, refusing to acknowledge the pain. Any of the pain. "But I guess I just traded in the KGB for HYDRA." Sam glanced up at her, reaching for the roll of gauze. Natasha grunted a rueful laugh. "I thought I knew whose lies I was telling, but I guess I can't tell the difference anymore." _Maybe I never could._

"Somehow I think that's part of the business." Sam offered a hint of a smile, but there was no humor behind it. "And it seems like those really terrible things you've done are more recent than you're letting on."

So much for deflecting. She jerked defensively. She couldn't help herself, and it wasn't just because it hurt as he started wrapping the wound. "I've made a lot of mistakes," she softly admitted.

"Steve told me something horrible happened to him a couple of months ago, something that landed him on medical leave," Sam said. "I'm guessing it was you trying to kill him." Natasha closed her eyes against the sting of tears. _God, get a hold of yourself._ Sam was silent for a moment, rolling the gauze tightly around her leg. Natasha breathed, slow and steady. It was all she could do to hang onto her control. "I wasn't kidding before, when I said he told me that you make him happy."

"I know that," she quietly responded.

"Whatever's happened in the past, whatever they made you do… SHIELD or HYDRA or the KGB or _whoever_… We're in this now. And we're going to get Steve back and make them pay."

"You think they made me do it?" The question came of its own accord. She hadn't thought to ask it. She hadn't thought at all. She was numb, lost again, staring at the coffee table through blurry eyes and with her heart dying in her chest. But now that she'd asked it, she wanted an answer. She _needed_ an answer. It didn't matter that they didn't know each other. Sam was totally ignorant of her beyond these last twelve horrific hours. He didn't know about her colored past, the blood in her ledger. He didn't know Black Widow beyond a few shots on TV from the Battle of New York. She needed to know if he could trust her. "Do you?"

Sam secured the bandages with tape and leaned back gingerly. He watched her with narrowed eyes, analytic eyes. Measuring her against whatever Steve had told him about her and what he'd observed and learned firsthand. Looking for the truth, maybe, in the rumors and speculation. "I think that Steve loves you a lot. And I think you love him. Whatever they made you… Like I said, it's in the past. You can be whoever you want to be."

Hearing someone else say that – no, not just say it. _Believe it._ Hearing someone else have faith in her made it real. Sam smiled, really and truly, and though there was still hesitation in his eyes, he wasn't shining her on or placating her. He was being honest. Like Steve always was. Honest and loyal to his morals and _true_.

Sam patted her leg and cleaned up the wrappers from the bandages. Natasha gathered her composure with a deep, settling breath. She grabbed her pants and carefully slid her legs into them. Just as she was standing and testing the extent of the pain, JARVIS' calm tone cut through the silence again. "Agent Romanoff, Mr. Wilson. Mr. Stark would like you to join him on his workshop on the 35th floor. He has uncovered some information about the USB drive you brought him."

Sam shared a worried look with her. "Come on. Let's go see what this is all about."

* * *

Like everything else in Stark Tower (Avengers Tower, apparently – when had that happened?), Tony's workshop was ridiculously large, overly extravagant, and teeming with technology. Natasha hadn't been back to the Tower since right after the Battle of New York, and she'd forgotten what a playground for himself Stark had designed it to be. The elevator deposited them on the 35th floor, and JARVIS allowed them through a series of glass doors equipped with some pretty hefty security measures. The room beyond was huge, filled with work desks and tools and robots. The New York City skyline was visible through the expanse of floor to ceiling windows that comprised the far wall, the buildings beyond draped in just the first hints of shadow as the summer afternoon wore into early evening. The world looked disturbingly peaceful, completely unaware of the danger watching it. The danger so deeply embedded into the organizations charged with protecting its freedoms and liberties. If SHIELD was HYDRA, and SHIELD had its arms stretched into the US government and other governments around the world, then… There was no telling how deep the damage went.

"Yo. Over here." Tony was at one of his workstations, the biggest in the room. A huge holographic interface was before him, glowing blue and white and green. He was manipulating it, his hands flying through the air like he was conducting orchestra through a fast-paced tune.

Natasha and Sam came closer, stepping around the egregious piles of things around the workshop. Discarded tools. Haphazardly placed materials. Sam passed a counter loaded with parts for something. At any given time, Tony was embroiled in half a dozen projects. Some of the pieces were clearly parts of Iron Man: gauntlets, a repulsor cannon, metal plating painted gold. Other things went to something similar but not exactly the same. The innards of a robot arms. Wrenches and screwdrivers. Meters and probes. Rods and bars, cables curling and embracing around them like muscles covering bones in an arm. Half of some sort of head, the metallic skull oddly disturbing where it partially covered a nest of wires and computer chips inside. A haunting face. The head was connected via some fiber optic cables to a computer terminal, and a nearby screen seemed to be running through some diagnostics. "What is all this?" Sam asked.

"Something I'm working on. Not important right now." Natasha's eyes lingered on the half empty skull, on the slanted eye sockets that reminded her of Iron Man but not quite enough, and ignored the tiny shudder itching at the small of her back. Tony stood from his stool. "You guys want some pizza? Over there." He gestured to a steel table to the side, also cluttered with chaos, with tools and pads and about six boxes of pizza, significantly more than they could possibly eat. "I didn't know what you liked, so I had J order some of everything."

Sam didn't hesitate. He limped over to the table and took a plastic plate and loaded it with a few slices of different types. He hand that to Natasha. She looked down on it, her face composed but her stomach roiling. It looked greasy. Sam was already well in the process of making a second plate for himself. "Thanks."

"No problem. So this drive that you brought here–" He tipped his head back to the computer workstation behind him, where Natasha could see the USB drive plugged into a Stark Industries hub. "–isn't your normal, garden-variety USB drive."

"I should hope not," Sam said, taking a bite from a slice of pepperoni, "considering what we had to go through to get it to you." Natasha fought not to flinch and made herself eat.

Tony cocked his head, pursing his lips as he looked through the data flying by on the holographic display. "Yeah, well, this drive has an AI on it. A very powerful one. It keeps rewriting the contents of the disk to counter my commands. If I had to wager a guess, I'd say it was designed to lower its defenses, so to speak, only in specific locations. That list of places you mentioned, in all likelihood. This program is like a goddamn sentinel. It's making getting at whatever data's on it a challenge. Can't copy it. Can't break into it. Can't even delete it."

Natasha had been afraid of this. "You can't hack it?"

"Trying, babe. JARVIS is trying to fake it into thinking we're on of its home bases. I think we're getting close." Tony manipulated a few of the readouts streaming by on the holographic display, squinting as he rapidly analyzed them. "Yeah, I think so. I mean, I hacked SHIELD once. I feel like should be able to manage this." Tony Stark didn't sound certain of himself. That made Natasha even more shaken.

"And when you hacked SHIELD, you didn't find any sign that SHIELD was HYDRA?" Sam asked dubiously. There was a tense tone to his voice, not quite accusing, but not entirely comfortable, either. She supposed he had a right to be. He was an outsider to all of this, for all intents and purposes a civilian, and HYDRA had grown inside of SHIELD right under the noses of the world's smartest men and best spies. And right under the noses of the Avengers.

Tony didn't get defensive. "I've never trusted SHIELD. And Rogers didn't, either." Natasha couldn't help but wonder how well Tony actually knew Steve, because he sure as hell had trusted SHIELD, at least enough to work for them. Tony and Steve hadn't hit it off at all in the beginning. They'd been at each other's throats (okay, they _all _had been at each other's throats) during the Chitauri incident. But in the end they'd worked together, buried the hatchet so to speak, and gotten the job done. Steve had kept in contact with Tony over the last couple of years, but maybe they'd been closer than Natasha had realized. Close enough that maybe Steve had told Tony of his worries about SHIELD before Steve had even told her. They should have gotten out then. Left when they'd first started to realize that SHIELD wasn't the symbol of justice and security they thought it was.

She closed her eyes, the echo of that argument in the lab aboard the helicarrier filling her head. Her own words had been somehow prophetic. _"Are you boys really that naïve? SHIELD monitors potential threats."_

_"Captain America's on the threat list?"_

"I guess this explains why SHIELD had the HYDRA weapons," Tony surmised.

"What about the other Avengers?" Natasha asked.

Tony cocked his head again. "Haven't seen Thor since the Greenwich incident. Banner's doing one of his things out in Africa. Or India." He shrugged. "I put a call into him, but when he goes on these trips for the good of humanity, he tends to not answer his phone. What about Hawkeye?"

It was the one thing they hadn't discussed during their harried flight from Wheaton to New York. Tony had questions, questions he smartly hadn't asked. Natasha clenched her jaw. She couldn't think about it, couldn't talk about it. "Compromised," was all she could say.

Tony was more socially perceptive than people realized. He dropped the topic all based on the tightness of Natasha's tone and the hard scowl on her face. "Then it's up to us to get the Cap out of there. As soon as JARVIS gives me an answer as to what it is SHIELD wants so bad."

"I am working on it, sir," the AI responded.

"Well, put some damn speed on it," Tony returned, not quite facetiously. It wasn't always easy to read Stark, but Natasha thought she saw genuine concern in his eyes. He was certainly tense, though he was trying not to seem that way. It was as though he'd seen through Natasha's façade to how brittle she was beneath it and was therefore struggling to appear in control for her benefit. After all, they'd come to him for help. "I searched all over the internet and any opening I have within SHIELD for Project: Insight, but there's nothing. Whatever it is, it's buried deep."

"Steve said it was an algorithm," Natasha quietly declared.

Tony's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Project: Insight?"

"No, whatever's on the drive."

"How did he know that?" Sam asked.

"Sitwell told him before he died," Natasha answered.

"Sitwell's dead, too?" Tony asked. Natasha had told Tony most of what had happened, but she must have forgotten to mention that part. Honestly, it was almost too much to explain. He swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You might have mentioned that. What a fucking mess. I kept telling everyone SHIELD was shit. How much of it is HYDRA?"

There was no way to know. "It makes sense that Sitwell was, considering he was the original courier for this thing," Natasha said. _Clint. _"The STRIKE Team. Whoever or whatever is in charge of Project: Insight." _The Winter Soldier._ "The Secretary of Defense."

"Pierce?" Tony asked. Natasha nodded. Tony grunted. "Well, that settles that. No way I'm showing up at his niece's birthday party now." Natasha shared a confused look with Sam, but they didn't have time to question. "So Fury's dead. Sitwell's dead. Pierce is evil incarnate. Rogers is a prisoner. You've got some crazy-ass Russian super assassin chasing you down. And Barton's gone to the Dark Side. What else? Could there _be_ anything else?" Tony shook his head. "Where's Hill?"

Natasha shook her head. "No one has seen or heard from her since Fury was killed."

"Fantastic," Tony muttered. He was working with the data coming at him again. "Defected or dead. So the shit has truly hit the fan."

"Sir, the analysis has finished. I believe we have gotten past the security failsafe," JARVIS announced.

Tony jolted forward in excitement. Sam set the remains of his pizza down. "Finally," he said, relief and anticipation coloring his voice.

"J, Run the decryption," Tony ordered.

"Already running it," the AI responded. "Accessing files."

The holographic display seemed to explode as it flooded with data. It was coming in a steady but chaotic stream, and the sphere of information grew until it encased all of them. Natasha turned, her plate forgotten on a stool beside one of the workbenches. Her eyes narrowed as she beheld the wealth of information rushing at them in a dazzling show of glowing numbers, letters, and images. "What is all of this?" she asked.

Sam looked about as flabbergasted. "Stark," he called, tipping his head toward a section of the display to the left of them. In the three-dimensional representation of the file tree, this node was labeled "Project: Insight". Tony came over, staring at the spot suspiciously. He grabbed the node and pulled it closer, inspecting it in his hand for moment before shooting his arms out to either side and opening the node.

What was inside it was immediately obvious.

"Is that…" Natasha whispered.

"Yeah," Tony answered unhappily. "It probably goes without saying but this is the _last _time I ever consult on anything for SHIELD." The schematics for three helicarriers floated in front them. They were state of the art behemoths, equipped with new repulsor engines (the design of which could have only come from Stark) and new weaponry that Natasha didn't recognize. This was Project: Insight, and it was very clearly meant for one purpose and one purpose alone.

To bring about HYDRA's new world order.

"Holy shit," Sam breathed as Tony rotated the three-dimensional schematic of one of the helicarriers. "That is a lot of firepower."

"Fury approached me right after the helicarrier almost went down during the Battle of New York for my help in designing better engines. These ships can maintain continuous suborbital flight. The engines work on modified arc reactor technology. Once they're up there…" Tony glanced at Natasha, his face pale with worry. He didn't need to finish. Once the helicarriers went up, they weren't coming down. These weren't designed to fight a war. These were designed to stop a war before it even started. They were designed to be aloft and unreachable. They were first strike weapons, and Pierce had his finger on their triggers.

"So this is it? This is what they want this drive for?" Sam asked, rotating slowly and looking at the designs and specifications with a mixture of horror and anger.

"No," Natasha said. Suddenly everything Pierce had said about Fury dragging his feet made more sense. "These helicarriers must already be built. Fury was trying to delay their launch. That's why they killed him." She squinted, seeing another node in the file tree. She walked closer. It was entitled "Lemurian Star". She pointed at it. "Tony, that's the ship Steve got this from. The _Lemurian Star._"

Tony dismissed the schematics of the helicarriers with a brush of his hand and reached lithely across the way to grab the node Natasha had suggested. He opened that. Dozens of files with WorldCom's logo appeared. "What is this?" he asked. "Satellite launch data?" He looked through the data for a moment. "WorldCom was in charge of developing the Insight satellites." WorldCom, the company that had put that USB hub in the bunker in Camp Lehigh. WorldCom, where Zola had hid himself. "This is… It's some kind of simulation. Beta-testing a model. JARVIS, can we run this?"

"I am attempting to allocate enough memory and processing power," JARVIS calmly explained. "My calculations indicate I will need to pull in the computing cluster from Malibu."

"Do it."

It was silent for a few tense moments as JARVIS worked. The three of them waited as patiently as they could manage. Then the display seemed to explode again with activity, images and information radiating outward in a dazzling array. Thousands upon thousands of names were floating around them, a cloud of _people_ from all over the world. Natasha caught pictures. _Matthew Ellis. Stephen Strange. Michael Lindon. Maria Hill. Carol Danvers. Virginia Potts. Bruce Banner._ The list went on and names. _Samuel Wilson. Anthony Stark. Steven Rogers. Natasha Romanoff._ "What the hell is this?" Sam breathed. A counter in the middle of the display was rapidly increasing. "What the hell?"

"The algorithm," Tony said, his eyes widening with dawning realization. "It's accessing information across the internet by the terabyte."

"SHIELD's databases," Natasha whispered, horrified. _Oh, God, what have we done?_

"Not just that. Bank records. Medical records. Taxes. Social networking. Goddamn test scores. Christ, it's getting information from _everywhere_ and running it in real-time, crunching it and reducing it to a posterior probability for each individual through discriminant analysis… Holy shit." He looked at Natasha, white-faced and alarmed. "It's using people's pasts to predict their futures. It's evaluating who's likely to become a threat."

"To what?" Sam asked.

"To HYDRA."

The counter was climbing and climbing. Tens of thousands of people. _Hundreds _of thousands of people. Natasha shook her head, struggling to wrap her mind around this. There were numbers accompanying each person. Coordinates, derived from GPS. "It's a targeting algorithm. That's what Zola developed. A targeting algorithm." Her lips hardly moved around the soft words. "It's identifying and locating targets for the Insight carriers." She whirled and looked at Tony. "Project: Insight. _This _is the insight! It's figuring out who will rise against HYDRA and striking them first before they even have a chance!"

"Jesus," Sam whispered, his eyes wide and his form tight with fear. "Seven hundred thousand people…"

Tony shook his head, pulling the final statistics toward him to look them over. "That's not total. That's the projected death toll from the first strike along the eastern seaboard." Tony's face was white. "There are more than twenty million names on this list."

Twenty million. Twenty million that would be dead. Annihilated. Eradicated. _Twenty million._

This was what Steve had sacrificed himself to stop. Twice he'd given his life to prevent HYDRA from destroying the world. This time he'd done it without even knowing the extent of the evil they'd faced. It had only been a hint, a whisper of things stirring in the shadows. Seeing it now, the ugly, vicious truth of what they'd permitted to grow inside of something in which they'd believed… Natasha felt her eyes burn again. _This_ was SHIELD. It was a lie. It had _become _a lie.

No, it always had been a lie. She'd just been too stupid and eager to redeem herself to see it.

"Sir, I am detecting an aberration in the computing cluster. It seems the AI from the SHIELD drive is interacting with our system." If JARVIS could sound rattled, he was certainly doing it.

Tony looked… alarmed. Verging on panic. "What's it doing?"

"Trying to access my subroutines in the Tower," JARVIS answered.

"Lock it out!"

"I am trying, sir, but I–" JARVIS' worried voice cut off abruptly. The holographic display just disappeared, taking all of the data from the simulation with it, and the lights in the workshop went out.

Tony stepped into the center of the shadowy room, looking around like he didn't understand how this could be possible. He probably didn't. "JARVIS?" he called, though it was fairly obvious the AI was not going to answer. "JARVIS! Fuck."

"What's happening?" Sam asked.

"Hell if I know! Obviously the defenses on this drive turned into offenses! Shit." He ran around to the desk where the USB drive was plugged into the Tower's computer system. He yanked it free and tapped furiously at the keyboard for a second. Nothing happened. "This is bad."

Natasha whirled, looking at Tony with wide eyes. "Stark, we need to get out of here."

Tony's eyes were focused on the computer screens in front of him. "No, it's coming back up now. It's–" The lights jolted back on, chasing away the dimness. The machines in Tony's lab came to life with a soft whir that rapidly escalated into something more disturbing and chaotic. His robots were squealing, jolting and squirming like they were somehow in pain. That skull that had been connected to the computer sparked, and its one eye shone bright blue. _Everything_ seemed to be going haywire. "What the hell is this?" Tony asked, abandoning trying to work at the computer in lieu of staring at his workshop like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Some goddamn virus?"

Suddenly all of the computer monitors flashed back on, only they were all filled with one thing. A red skull, and below that tentacles. The cephalopod of HYDRA. Natasha recognized it immediately from the footage Zola had shown them in the bunker and SSR's old files. JARVIS' voice, twisted and distorted, echoed through the workshop. It was deep and ominous, seemingly vibrating the top of the Tower. "Cut off one head, and two more shall take its place."

Then it was all over again. It was _silent_.

The three of them were still, frightened and shocked, looking around Tony's workshop. No one dared to speak or move or even really think, waiting in dread for the next thing to happen. It happened, though not with the bang they all feared. "What is that?" Sam asked, his eyes distant. He looked up, confusion splayed all over his face. "Do you hear that?"

Natasha heard nothing for a long moment, holding her breath and willing the pounding of her heart to cease so that she could listen. Then there was something. A fast-paced, rhythmic _thud thud thud_. It was distant, muffled, but distinct and getting louder. She turned, looking around and wondering and feeling increasingly certain that they were in serious danger, before her eyes found the source of the sound outside. In the sky. Coming toward them.

_"Take cover!"_ Her scream came only a second before the quinjet coming at them started firing. The bullets seemed to tear through the Tower in slow motion, careening in rapid succession from jet's minigun underneath its belly and driving into the 35th floor. The windows shattered in an explosion of glass, and the workshop was destroyed all around them. Natasha dove, hiding behind one of the workbenches, Sam following her. Tony dropped to the floor, pressing as low as he could and crawling to another desk for protection. The cacophony of bullets striking equipment and the floor and the desks was deafening, and while the assault endlessly persisted, all they could do was cower and pray.

Eventually it ended. Natasha had drawn her handgun (not that that would do any good against a quinjet), and she turned to look over the desk. The jet that had been hovering right outside the Tower was gone. _Shit._ "JARVIS!" Tony shouted. He was scrambling over the debris, trying to stay low while reaching Sam and Natasha. "JARVIS, goddamn it! Fucking answer me! Shit!" There was nothing. Obviously whatever defensive mechanism HYDRA had put onto the USB drive had infiltrated Stark's computer system, JARVIS included. Tony looked equal parts terrified and furious. "You two are rapidly turning out to be more trouble than you're worth," he sniped, his eyes quickly devouring their appearances to ensure they weren't hurt. "SHIELD?"

Natasha nodded. "They want the drive," she declared. The Tower was eerily silent again, filled with only the moans and creaks of the destroyed equipment, the crackling of small fires, and the sparking of electricity. "We have to get out of here. They can't get it."

Tony tossed the USB stick to her. "You two go. Without JARVIS, you need to take the stairs." He rolled onto his back, breathing heavily. Neither Sam nor Natasha moved, staring at him like he was crazy. Tony stood, throwing his arms out toward the rear of the workshop where there were rows of cylindrical storage units that Natasha hadn't even noticed until now. One exploded outward, the cover blowing off, and Tony's armor shot through the smoldering wreckage of the workshop toward them. It came apart midair, dissembling in an elegant and well-coordinated show of sleek red and gold before encasing Tony. The whole thing took a second, and a second later Iron Man stood in front of them.

"Whoa," Sam breathed.

Iron Man glared at them. "Am I speaking Swahili here? _Go!"_

Natasha clenched the drive in her palm, holding the gun before her as she scrambled to her feet. She kept low, darting across the workshop, Sam close behind her. She heard the sound of rotors cutting through the air again. The quinjet was back, firing into the building. Natasha ducked low, diving across the tiles and yanking Sam with her. She rolled, slamming her shoulder into another workbench. She heard the roar of gunfire, the bullets cutting into the floor and walls and ceiling. Drywall and glass rained down on them. She heard more than saw Iron Man stalking across the workshop, his palm repulsors raised and firing at the jet. It swerved, banking to avoid the shots. Quickly the pilots disengaged, maybe realizing they couldn't contend with Iron Man. Not likely, though.

Natasha climbed back to her feet, ignoring the pulse of pain through her leg, and sprinted to the stairwell outside the lab while Tony provided them with cover. The glass doors and walls that had separated the workshop from the corridor beyond it were shattered, and she could see the doors to the stairs beside the dark and idle elevator. They could get there. _Run. Get away. Take the drive. _Take it where? There was nowhere safe from SHIELD. _Don't think about it now. Run!_

A glance to Sam was all she needed to communicate that it was time, and together the two of them raced to the stairwell doors. However, before they reached them, the thick slabs of metal burst open, kicked clean off their hinges. Natasha skidded to a stop, bringing the gun up and pushing Sam back behind her. Her eyes widened. _No. _ They couldn't escape. _No!_

The Winter Soldier stalked through the entrance.

"Shit," Sam breathed in her ear. Natasha quickly squeezed off a couple of shots, but the Soldier was faster, raising his metal arm to block the bullets. They fell as crumpled lumps at his feet, useless. Behind him, a slew of STRIKE soldiers followed, their rifles raised and aimed at Sam and Natasha. Natasha fired at them, taking down one, but there were too many and the Winter Soldier was upon them. His face was dark and emotionless, without recognition. She recognized him, though, and now there was no doubt. _Barnes._

The metal arm snapped toward her. She dodged the strike, but just barely, ducking and delivering a sweeping kick of her own. Her foot struck true, but it was like hitting a cement wall and he hardly fell back. "Run!" she cried at Sam, using the split second of the Soldier's retreat to spring back toward the workshop. She didn't get very far. The Winter Soldier reached for her faster than she could prevent, grabbing her ankle and hauling her closer. Sam yelled in anger, launching himself at the assassin. The Soldier blocked both of the punches he threw at him, but that caused him to release Natasha. She scrambled away, glancing over her shoulder and observing in horror as Sam was bodily thrown across the room. He collided with a desk with a howl of pain and slumped. "Sam! _Sam!_"

She didn't have time to see if Sam was okay. The Winter Soldier was on her again, a silent, icy wrath bearing down on his prey. She kicked at him, struggling to get her feet beneath her, to summon some measure of control and strength so she could fight. The other soldiers were swarming, surrounding her. She scrambled to run, but there was nowhere to go now. She couldn't get away. She couldn't–

"Get back!" Iron Man landed in front of her with a thud. The palm repulsors were firing in a quick volley, the blasts hitting the soldiers in the chests and legs and dropping them. The Winter Soldier wasn't dissuaded, however, attacking Natasha anew while Iron Man was distracted. Natasha blocked the blows, but the Soldier was too fast and too strong. He was driven, and she was his mission. She knew it. A crack across the face with the flesh and blood fist sent her staggering, blood filling her mouth from where her teeth gashed her cheek. She never hit the ground even though her feet stumbled beneath her because the metal hand grabbed her throat and yanked her closer. The gun slipped from her fingers as she grabbed the Winter Soldier's wrist. Those eyes. Barnes' eyes. She was staring right into them. She was staring, and he was choking her.

"Drop her, you asshole," Tony ordered. Iron Man's face was locked in its perpetual scowl, but Stark's voice was infinitely more threatening. The Winter Soldier stayed still, unbothered, hardly even glancing at Tony. The pressure of his fingers shifted, not quite as strong but nothing near to releasing her, but Natasha was able to suck in a breath. Her own fingers were digging into the grip about her neck, trying to pry and claw it loose, but she couldn't. Her other hand clenched the USB drive tighter. "Let her go!" Tony shouted. "Do it!"

The Winter Soldier's eyes hardened with a glint Natasha well recognized – the intention to kill – but before he could snap her neck, Tony barreled into him. The vicious grip was gone and Natasha was falling. She hit the floor hard, her injured leg crumpling instantly, but she crawled away toward Sam who was dazedly scrambling toward her as well. Behind them, Tony and the Winter Soldier were locked in battle. This was different from how Steve had fought the Winter Soldier. That brief encounter had been about speed, about strength, about skill. This was simply about _power_, the Winter Soldier's metal arm pounding into Iron Man's armor, and Iron Man pounding back. The mechanical whir of Iron Man's joints flexing and twisting was loud as he grappled with the Winter Soldier, throwing the other man into one of the work desks. It crumpled completely, but the Soldier was back on his feet instantly, tackling Iron Man. Tony spun with surprising alacrity, dislodging the other man's grip and throwing another punch. The Soldier caught Tony's fist in his own, and for an endless moment it was a contest of their opposing strengths, boots digging into the floor as the Winter Soldier tried to drive Tony back into Sam and Natasha. Stark's armor crumpled under the strength of the metal hand. Iron Man opened his hand and launched a repulsor blast at the Soldier, and it slammed into his chest and disrupted his stance. Tony jetted away. "Run!" he bellowed at Natasha and Sam.

_No. No more running._ Natasha crawled forward, eyeing the approaching slew of STRIKE soldiers in terror, reaching for her fallen gun. She grabbed it, slammed the USB drive to the floor at her knees, and pressed the muzzle of the gun right on top of it. "Stop! Stop, or I swear I'll destroy it!" At first, no one followed her orders. Gritting her teeth, she fired the gun into the ceiling, and somehow that shot was louder than the melee around them. "Stop right now! I mean it!"

The Winter Soldier caught sight of her, the barrel of her gun poised to fire on the drive. Natasha stared at him, her eyes hard and hot, panting but not wavering. "I mean it," she warned again. "Back off."

The Winter Soldier had no choice, and Tony retreated to stand in front of Sam and Natasha, his armor dented and scraped from the fight. For the moment, at least, they were at a stand-off. The Winter Soldier's eyes hardened as he stared at his adversaries, at his mission trapped precariously between the tip of Natasha's gun and the tiles of the floor. Then his eyes glazed, like he was listening to something else. He raised his gloved hand to his mouth and said something softly and lowly, something Natasha couldn't quite hear.

Suddenly the computer screens that were still intact and functional inside the workshop blared to life. JARVIS' voice flooded the room, not quite right but closer to his normal tone. "Incoming message from SHIELD, sir."

_What?_ But before anyone could say anything, let alone get an explanation or stop it, an image appeared on the screens surrounding them. Their small group focused on a larger screen slightly to the left attached above one of the workbenches. The right corner was damaged, but even with the spidery cracks reaching down and across the display, what they were seeing was obvious. And more than terrifying. _No. No, no, no!_

It was Pierce, and he was standing next to Steve. Steve, who was on his knees, his hands bound behind his back and gagged. Steve, who was half naked and covered in blood and so badly beaten he was almost unrecognizable. Steve, who was barely conscious, shivering with his eyes glazed and lidded and lost. Steve, who had Clint, Rumlow, and Rollins surrounding him, and each had his gun aimed at him. _Oh, God._ Natasha's heart broke, _shattered_, and she couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She couldn't do anything, her eyes burning with tears and her body shaking. This was what it was coming to. All of this, dissolving to this inevitable moment. She should have known, should have been ready to deal with it, _prepared_. But she wasn't. _Oh, Steve, no… Please, God! _"No," she whispered.

"Jesus," Sam whispered. He grabbed Natasha's shoulder, clambering to his feet.

"Agent Romanoff," Pierce said. He looked at he always did, sharply dressed and composed, like this was business as usual. Like having Captain America bound and bleeding at the mercy of his thugs was fucking business as usual. "This is the end of my patience. That drive does not belong to you. Surrender it to us, or we'll kill him." Barton moved, raising his handgun to jab the muzzle into Steve's temple.

"What the fuck…" Tony breathed. He was aghast. "You sick son of a bitch!" The STRIKE agents were surrounding them now, their rifles pointed at the trio, and the Winter Soldier watched dispassionately. Natasha was able to tear her eyes from Steve for only a moment, but when she glanced at Barnes she found him unbothered. Unknowing. His best friend from childhood was being used as leverage in some twisted hostage situation, and he was completely uncaring.

But she couldn't spare another thought in rage or disgust, because Steve screamed. Her eyes snapped back to the video call before she could stop herself, and she could do nothing as she saw Rumlow strike Steve in the chest with a stun baton. The cry was muffled, short, and ragged, something that spoke of being pushed even further, pushed long past a breaking point. It was raw and desperate, a keening thing that choked off when Steve ran out of breath. Rumlow was vicious, not letting up for a second even as Steve slumped. Rollins' grip in his hair was the only thing holding him up.

"Stop it," Natasha demanded, unable to hold her tears back any longer. "Stop it! Stop hurting him!"

"Leave him alone!" Sam raged. "What the fuck is the matter with you people?"

Tony's voice cracked. "Stop! You're killing him!"

Rumlow did stop. For a second, just long enough for Steve to catch his breath. Then he jabbed the baton into Steve's other side, dragging it up his chest, dangerously close to his sternum. The stick crackled with electricity. Steve wailed again, convulsing. "Stop it! _Stop it!"_

Pierce nodded slightly, and Rumlow backed off, leaving Steve gasping and sobbing through the gag. "I want that drive back," Pierce said. "Either you hand it over right now or we'll kill him. We're getting what we want, Agent Romanoff. Question is: how much more do you want Captain Rogers to suffer for it?" Natasha was quivering, watching as Steve fought to stay conscious. She didn't know if he could see her. And she didn't know if he had any idea he was being used as a bargaining chip. Her hand shook where it was clenched around the gun. "Decide now. I'm through playing games."

"Natasha, don't." Tony turned, his face white and his eyes filled with horror. "You _can't_."

Pierce's response to that was another nod at Rumlow, and the sadistic bastard pulled the stun baton back so that Steve could see it charging up with power. Then he stabbed it into an already gaping wound on Steve's shoulder. Rollins pushed Steve forward, digging the tip of the baton even deeper inside his body. Steve screamed until he couldn't anymore, jerking mindlessly. Rumlow's face was picture of malice, of cruel enjoyment, and he kept the pressure on, pushing deeper and deeper until either Steve died or…

"Is this really what you want?" Pierce asked. He stepped closer to the camera. "You love him, Agent Romanoff."

"What?" Tony whispered.

Natasha shuddered, mouth falling open limply, tears rolling unabated down her cheeks. Her fingers loosened on the gun even more until it was slipping from her grip. She couldn't think. _She couldn't do this._

"You love him," Pierce repeated. "I know you do. Is _this_ what you want?" Steve wailed again, contorting and seizing under the torture. The horrors he'd endured were painted all over his body. Unwillingly, Natasha whimpered. She looked, but she couldn't make herself see. "I bet after what happened in Russia you promised him you wouldn't hurt him ever again. Didn't you?" Some small part of Natasha _knew _Pierce was playing her. Manipulating her. Using her emotions against her. Exploiting the very things she'd always been afraid would be exploited if she ever let her heart open. But that small part was drowning under the ocean of terror and misery flooding her. "You promised him, didn't you?"

_"Promise me you won't let me hurt you again."_

_"You won't."_

Steve was losing consciousness. He was barely awake, barely even struggling with the relentless voltage jolting over and inside his body. Natasha watched, feeling like she was clinging to the last shred of her sanity. Her mind knew one thing. But her heart was screaming something else, suffering and dying right along with Steve, and she couldn't make herself accept the right course. She couldn't. It was selfish and incredibly _stupid_, but she couldn't. If she surrendered that drive, if Pierce got his hands on the targeting algorithm for Project: Insight, twenty million people were at risk. The life of one man, no matter who that one man was, could not compare with the death of twenty million people. She _knew_ this, but logic wasn't strong enough to combat her driving need to save Steve.

She couldn't bear to lose him. Not now. Not ever. She loved him far too much.

"Let him go." She hadn't thought to speak. Hadn't thought to grab the USB drive and hold it tight in her palm and stand. "Let him go, and I'll give it to you."

"No!" Tony snapped. Iron Man's faceplate came open, and he whirled on her. Natasha feared for a minute that he would actually fight her to get that drive, to stop her from doing this. But he didn't. And Steve was still screaming, driving her, pushing her to make this stop. To end it, by whatever means necessary. "Natasha, you can't do this! He wouldn't want you to–"

"Let him go!" she shouted. "Or I promise that you'll never get this back. _Never._"

Pierce stared at her, perhaps analyzing the veracity of her own threat. It was an empty one. They were completely surrounded. Even with Iron Man, the odds were not in their favor. Still, Pierce realized it was a risk, one he could perhaps not afford to take. So he nodded at Rumlow again. Rumlow backed off, pulling the stun baton from Steve's body. Clint stepped away as well, dropping his gun and holstering it. And Rollins released Steve, too. Steve pitched forward immediately, smacking into the floor. Natasha forced herself to be still, to watch him. He was still breathing. Barely. It was hardly anything at all. "Your turn," Pierce calmly declared.

Natasha felt rooted to the floor. Doubt splayed across her mind. She knew she shouldn't trust them. She knew that Steve wouldn't want this. She knew that it wasn't right. Trading the world's safety for Steve's life _wasn't right_. She knew it in her bones, in every strained beat of her heart, in the quiet places of her soul where all the blackness hadn't reached. Where her love for Steve kept her pure and noble. She _knew_ it wasn't right. But she couldn't stop herself. She didn't stop herself. And neither Sam nor Tony stopped her. One foot stepped forward. Then the other. She squeezed the drive in her palm hard enough that the connector cut into her flesh. She stopped in front of the Winter Soldier and reached toward him. And she opened her hand, offering up the payment for Steve's life.

He took it.

Sam closed his eyes. Tony swore.

And something inside Natasha died.

The Winter Soldier looked at the USB drive in his metal hand for a moment but only that and nothing more. Then he tucked it safely inside his combat vest. He murmured something low to his men that were still alive, and they headed to the side of the workshop where the windows had once been. The quinjet returned, and its rear hatch opened. The pilots maneuvered the aircraft near to the building, close enough that the soldiers could leap across the distance from the workshop to the ramp of the jet. The Winter Soldier was the last to go. He didn't even look back. The ramp closed, and the jet used its thrusters to get far enough away from the Tower to fire up its main engines. A breath later, it was gone.

_Gone._

Natasha turned back to the video call. Pierce was still standing there. If he was relieved at having reacquired his data, it didn't show on his placid face. He turned after a beat, looking back on Rumlow, Barton, and Rollins. Steve was laying helplessly on the floor between them, still breathing shallowly, clearly in agony. His eyes were closed. Pierce looked down on him with a small shake of his end. "Kill him," he ordered.

"You goddamn lying bastard!" Tony raged. "Fucking son of a bitch!"

"You should know by now, Black Widow." Pierce smiled smugly. "SHIELD doesn't negotiate." And he just walked away.

"No," Sam whispered, horrified. He turned to Tony. "We gotta do something!"

Tony didn't waste a second. He closed the faceplate on Iron Man and fired the rockets in his boots, zooming out of the destroyed workshop and shooting into the evening sky beyond Stark Tower. He was chasing after the quinjet, desperately trying to repair her monumental mistake.

Natasha wasn't watching, though. She couldn't look away as Rollins kicked Steve viciously in the stomach. She couldn't do anything as the bastard wove his hand through Steve's hair again and yanked and dragged him back onto his knees. She couldn't speak, couldn't feel, couldn't _think_ as Rumlow backhanded his prisoner. Steve slumped and choked, blood dribbling from his lips. Rollins hauled him upright again. "You gonna beg now, Cap?" Rumlow asked, sneering. She heard Steve groan, a garbled something she couldn't make out, and Rumlow laughed. "Too fucking late." The STRIKE commander glanced back at Clint. "Shoot him, Barton. Go ahead. Put him out of his misery."

Natasha shook her head helplessly. _No._ Clint pulled his gun loose again. "No, please…" He aimed it at Steve's chest. "Clint, no!" Clint's eyes narrowed, cruel and heartless. His finger squeezed the trigger. _"No!"_

A single shot rang out.

And the video feed died.

* * *

Please don't kill me? :)


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